Assassins of Annúminas
by XinnLajgin
Summary: Desmond couldn't save himself, he wondered how Vesta expected him to save a race that had already bit the dust.
1. Fate the Fickle

Summary: Sort of sequel to my oneshot challenge Wiseman.

Author's note: My muse just couldn't leave this one alone so I'm going to indulge. As always I hope I get reviews. I'm interested to see what my readers think of this little weird cross. -Rei

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><p>"Man can live about forty days without food, about three days without water, about eight minutes without air, but only for one second without hope" -Unknown<p>

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><p>Musical inspiration for this fic: The Outsider by A Perfect Circle, Kashmir by Led Zeppelin, and Headstrong by Trapt<p>

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><p>"<strong>Vesta Speak" <strong>'thought'

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><p>It waited for the world to become new again, lingered without a single iota of hurry as the surface burned bone dry of life, entire oceans evaporated, leaving bottomless crevices exposed and aquatic life dead. Chemicals ignited into an uncontrollable blaze, razing the earth with fiery fingers, and noxious fumes polluting the air caught alight, turning it black with burned bodies becoming epidemic vapor. It watched as all fled the surface to escape the carnage their habitat had become. If they were lucky they perished quickly in the death traps they hid in. Anything was better than the sun sickness which wasted away in the brain, and caused skin to blister and peel away. Even starving from lack of food, water, and oxygen was preferable to the slow descent to primordial ooze.<p>

Then came the rain. Glaciers once frozen for untold millennia melted and the few who survive fled again, in the wake of even more dangerous storms, which swamped their' vast underground lairs, and hollow caves with acid floods. The meager bacteria that served as food washed away, or became chocked with tainted water. They still ate it, and some managed to survive it. Still they endured ill-regular weather patterns, dodged volcanic eruptions, and killed whatever and whomever if necessary. But in the end, when all hope was spent and there was seemingly nothing left to exist for, a being of formless power took interest.

Unmoving it observed the amorphous force interact with the destruction that lay waste to the world in its touch. Recalled, even as both the shapeless being and the earth began to resonate with each other, this was not the first time this has occurred. The energy would propel itself through the weakened ozone of the planet, touching, and effectively changing all molecular structure it came in contact with. Even the hand-full of surviving homo-sapiens weren't spared the transformations. It was painful, it was difficult, and it was necessary. As their environment evolved around them from the molecular level up, so too did the survivors.

Their forms were re-crafted through fire, as the structures of their bodies were rearranged to be tempered like metal rather than burned if it was flesh. This "treatment" allowed for the "Ainur" to harmonize with the power giving them life. And from what little of their unconscious minds remained were communicated to it, Eru crafted the rest of Arda to suit the beings it had created. And when the resonance of Eru ebbed, the Ainur took over, intent to create "the vision of Eru" which was given to them in the form of what they perceived as music. Never knowing that they were once the very beings Eru had recreated from their cataleptic memories.

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><p><strong>"Optimal habitation conditions won't be reached in centuries yet"<strong>, Vesta's creation mused clinically still observing the chaos of Arda. And in the black of space, the artificial intelligence compared this convergence to those recorded by its creators. When first those who came before had entered what was known as the Milky Way galaxy, they had observed this phenomenon as it happened to the neighboring red planet. And wanting to gain the knowledge of Biosphereic creation for themselves, set out to track the power which seemingly dissipated after Mars ozone became thick enough to contain its own gravity. They never found it, and instead settled on studying, dissecting, and ultimately destroying all life on the planet.

Surprisingly the formless power hadn't returned, so those who came before moved on. Jupiter was their most important discovery. For when they collapsed the ecosystem of Jupiter, the formless power did return, to create from their destructive curiosity. This time, it was Saturn that was given the gift of life. Again too arrogant to learn from this lesson, those who came before continued their experiment. They moved to Terra, theorizing that the formless power that balanced the planets ability to have a Biosphere was directly linked to the condition of its neighboring planets.

But as powerful and innovative as they were, those that came before were powerful enough to create a planet. At best they could make a focus point from which gravity could be generated. To this end they crafted Terra's moon out of asteroids, and were able to establish enough gravitation pull to cool the earth un-inhabitable molten hot surface. And thus began their greatest experiment, and ultimately their downfall. Without a thought the last surviving visage of the gods of the old world watched.

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><p>Desmond woke up swinging, which he had been more awake to do so, would acknowledge that wasn't such a smart idea. As it was, he lay in his aquatic prison, coughing up vile curses behind the mask strategically placed over his mouth and nose. He immediately cradled his abused fist after its unfortunate rebound off the translucent shell of the not so surprisingly small confinement. <strong>"Log entry: Date 1M planetary rotations A.E. May 6<strong>**th**** of the year 2984 Third Age by reckoning of current population. Subject Ducere Novo is activated." **

Desmond glared as best as he was able through the solution impeding his vision. Everything ached, and his brain was desperately trying to catch up to what his instincts already gauged upon his awakening. He had only the vaguest idea what the fuzzy outline he was glaring at was. "What-" abruptly Altair's descendant was caught in another coughing fit, now registering the dry burn currently stripping his vocal cords of essential soft tissue. The temple's avatar ignored him, as she commanded the solution causing him to float to be drained from his tank.

Feeling himself starting to sink, the dark haired assassin desperately tried to find something to hold onto, only to let out a painful yelp as he felt something rip from his skin. Desmond looked down, and immediately wished he hadn't. Wearing only his birthday suit, the 24 year old could barely make out the reflective ends of thick needles sticking out of his various extremities. Following the quickly widening trail of blood flowing from his right arm, Desmond's gaze fixated on his inner elbow, where he had inadvertently jarred a particularly thick needle loose. **"Moving is ill-advised at this time. It is recommended that you remain stationary until initiation protocol has reached 100% completion."**

Half hysterically Desmond mused the only way this could get any creepier is if the voice giving him instructions had told him to keep his arms and legs within the ride until it came to a complete stop. Once again, the dark eyed man was gripped in another coughing fit, only half aware of his continual descent to the grated bottom of his upright tank. All the while his mind was a canopy of wild, malformed thoughts and emotions urgently gouging bloody strips out of his already splintered psyche. Suddenly his eyes were no longer hindered by the solution that had kept him suspended, and he was finally able to look upon his captor.

She was a dark haired apparition staring at him under a crown of copper curls. The opaque robe draped across her levitating form only added to her ghost-like quality. And the empty gaze now locked with his dumbfounded one was a jarring slap in the face needed to recall his last memories. Lucy, _'Oh god make it stop, please don't make me do this.' _Being trapped within the Animus by the assassins, _'I want out. Don't you see this is useless, you've fucking bled me dry.'_ Escaping the assassins and dodging Templars was by no means without unrelenting pursuit spent the majority of the time exhausted, and in almost constant injury. _'What was the god forsaken point_? _Don't they get that the world is going to end?_'

Pushed almost beyond the point of breaking, both from the stress of his ancestors' memories, and weight of his own problems, Desmond gave in to Juno's demand, and went looking for after those who turned away from war. He soon learned that, Vesta was one of the few of her kind that had sympathy for the race that they had created, and ultimately enslaved. She brokered peace between the two factions at the cost of exile, and lost her life when once again her race put their pride before the good of all. But the fallen one had left behind a long legacy of solutions, where her fellow siders of humanity only had warnings.

The former bartender had gone looking for a way to end the mess that his life had become. And he had found it, in the death sentence of the entire human race. "You," Desmond flinched as his feet hit the grates. His legs were unable to hold his weight, and buckled causing them to fold, even as the dark eyed assassin instinctively braced his arms against his plastic prison. The barrier holding him upright fell away, causing Desmond to completely collapse. Harsh breathes echoed the seemingly endless black he occupied. It was only after an untold amount of time that Desmond registered that it wasn't black, cloying his vision, but a sticky mess Bistre mane.

Angrily shoving away the dark mass away from his face, Desmond hissed as the needle imbedded in the back his hand jerked. Painful shock set in, and the assassin too tired to stop the mental fatigue from causing him to mechanically removing the equipment from himself. The temple's artificial intelligence surveyed its charge's vitals, as she observed him removing homo-stasis regulatory equipment. She catalogued every wince, aborted movement and sound that was particularly painful. The assassin would need to be treated for his ails later. Obviously being in stasis for millions of years wasn't agreeing with him. "Where are we," Desmond's voice was a rough croak from complete and utter disuse.

But he still forced himself to voice the question as best he could. It was made infinitely easier with the mask that had been feeding him oxygen was out of the way. The back of his head ached from the length of time the band had held it in place. Idly he wondered just how long he had slept. His body felt almost as alien to him now as it did when he had been unceremoniously been shoved into the Animus for the first time. **"What was once Kione, Gaia, and Terra, and you called Earth, is now called Arda." **Still the calm of shock persisted. "What country?"

"**The land mass has shifted too much for me to make a comparable analysis of our exact location in relation to any country relevant to your understanding" **Suddenly a projection of a map appeared, displaying just how much Desmond's home had transformed. There was nothing, nothing left of the earth that he vaguely knew. None of the continents he knew should be there, weren't anywhere to be found. In horror, his hands stilled in their task of removing the various needles attaching him to tubes of unknown content. "Damn it Vesta give me your closest guess," he snapped after another moment of helpless rage.

"**The closest geographic comparable I can make at this time is southwestern Turkey, boarding what was once the Mediterranean Sea. The sea is now a lake called Nenuial, it feeds two opposing rivers, the one without a name branches to the south on the other side of the hills guarding the lake opposite of our current location. The Brandywine has no such safe guard though we are closer to it." **An indicator flashed on the map of 'not earth' zooming in until it focused on a representation of where their current location was.

**"It has been roughly 3 million years since you were placed in stasis subject-** "My name is Desmond, use it!" **"Desmond, Abies Alpha landed 7 thousand years ago, and has been buried under the ruins of Annuminas which has been abandoned for 2."** Vesta continued to explain as if the assassin hadn't spoken at all. **"As it stands I will be unable to support my systems for much longer, you must acclimate yourself to your current environment if you are to have any hope of restoring your order." **Not for the first time, Desmond thought that knowing so much sucked out what infinitesimal common sense the computer had been programmed with.

"And exactly how in the hell am I supposed to do that," he hissed forcing himself to stand on coltish legs, grown weak with millennias worth of disuse. "And even, by some miracle I could do this by myself, why would I even want to." Vesta said nothing, just stared with empty eyes as she pointed a translucent finger behind him. Defiant, he turned ready to rip into whatever flimsy excuse Vesta would produce. He choked on the scathing words he wanted to say as he was confronted with the helpless visages of six interred children. "FFFUUUCCCKK MMMEEE."


	2. Survival

A/N: I went back and forth on how long I should've made this chapter, but in the end I got impatient to post so there is a lot less here then I originally planned. As always I value feedback so please send in reviews. –Rei

**"Vesta Speak" **'Thought'

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><p>One day each of you will come face to face with the horror of your own existence. One day you will cry out for help. One day each of you will find yourselves alone. - Alia, Children of Dune<p>

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><p>Musical inspiration for this chapter: Broken Sorrow by Nuttin but stringz, I walk alone by Tarja Turunen, and Funhouse by Pink<p>

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><p>When-You're-Evil- Many kudos you are my first reviewer for this fic, and I couldn't stop laughing. Honey I have a very wild imagination and you have no idea how hard it is to stop myself from getting an aneurysm because I now have a picture of what you just described stuck in my head.<p>

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><p>Denethor II newly crowned Stewart of Gondor gazed down at his father's cold corpse with a sense of apathy. The man may have sired him, but to Denethor he was always Lord Ecthelion II scion of the house Húrin first, and his often harshest critic second. It was often maddening just trying to please the man as a subordinate, let alone receiving Ecthelion's approval as a son. Still he strived for his father's affections, becoming more masterful a lord in his own right, and a better leader of men than any of those whom came before him. He had married well, making blood allies of the princes of Dol Amroth, and secured walls of the white city. And yet, it wasn't enough.<p>

His father's love still was given to others before himself. His sisters, Alagmariel and Vinyaostiel had wanted for nothing; Ecthelion doted on them greatly well into their majority. He even went so far as to allow them to choose whom they would marry. Denethor scoffed, as daughters to the ruling house of Gondor it was their duty to bring allies to Gondor through marriage, not lay with men beneath themselves for love. So it was with a fiercely glad heart that he received the news of Alagmariel's death on her way to meet her betrothed, the lord of Pinnath Gelin. And an even greater joy filled his heart when just a few years later, willful Vinyaostiel disappeared.

Half-heartedly, Denethor had coordinated routine searches for the younger of his two older sisters. And after 5 years it was finally concluded the Vinyaostiel was dead. It had taken an additional year for Ecthelion's councilors to convince him of that, but in the end the proud lord conceded. No lady as gently reared as his beloved Vinyaostiel could survive outside Minas Tirith. The perishing of his daughters however did not cause Ecthelion to cling to his only remaining child. If anything, the son of Turgon became more fixated upon giving his affections to those who distinguished themselves in his service, the flee bitten ranger Thorongil was just one in a long line of many that earned the man's graces.

What set Thorongil above the rest, was his very real threat to Denethor's position as heir apparent. The ranger looked enough like his father, and was beloved enough by the people to seriously be considered for the role. And for many years his anger at his forefather burned hot, and Ecthelion's love for Thorongil only made it burn hotter. The ranger may have dressed the part of a lord, but Denethor knew, under all that suave was a greedy conniving, glory seeking, street rat from the North attempting to usurp his future as Stewart. But the grave son of Ecthelion had plans of his own in mind, plans that included getting rid of interloping outsider. But then Finduilas had given him Boromir. And what was once desperate love for his father became disgust.

Denethor resolved to never to deprive his own heir what was stolen from him. The dark haired lord became consumed with giving his own son the love that he had been denied all his life to give much thought to either of them. Now with both objects of his loathing gone, Denethor just felt tired. "You are unwell my lord husband, I implore you to leave the task of the funeral to your council, at least for today." A wisp of a grim smile tugged at the dark haired man's lips. Automatically, he offered his arm to his wife whom stepped forward to stand at his side.

'My wife is a beautiful woman.' He silently acknowledged, still admiring of the delicate propriety that was characteristic of the house of the silver swans. Denethor absently noticed that Finduilas had changed from the gown that she wore this morning to the black dress more in keeping with that of his house. Her dark hair was now tamed under the dark veil she wore, which was a few shades lighter than her velvet gown. So gracious, such a devoted and fitting wife, yet still, "Where is my little prince?" Finduilas smiled softly, long used to the absolute preoccupation her husband had with their first-born. Still sometimes, in the privacy of her own chambers Finduilas worried over Denethor's penchant to obsess.

She knew that there was nothing greater or more terrible than a father's hopes for his son. And there was always the voiceless fear that disappointment would result in mutual bitterness. "Mithido is minding him. I thought to spare him at least a little while the news of Lord Ecthelion's passing." Abruptly the lady of Gondor flinched away from her husband as he tore his arm away from her grasp. She backed even further away as a black looked passed what she once considered Denethor's handsomely stern features. Too enraged to care about his decidedly uncouth behavior, the pan-sovereign advanced his quickly retreating wife. Ecthelion's councilors had left but minutes before, allowing the reticent only son of their fallen lord to mourn in peace.

Up until now, Finduilas never thought she would fear being alone with her husband. "You dare to presume to coddle the heir of this house? My son will not be crippled by the weakness of feeble women, get him now. Let him look upon the fate of all men." A mother's indignation welled within Finduilas's throat. Their golden child had only seen 6 summers. Yet the violent promise in her once beloved eyes silenced her just as quickly. Her father did not rule here, and she herself was still too new to the white city to truly have devout allies within its walls. She would bide her time, and pray to the Valar for a solution.

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><p>Desmond was struck dumb. He could push aside his feverish hatred of once again being conscripted for a life he most definitely did not want. He could delegate the horror of being asleep for 3 million years. He could even afford to ignore that everything and everyone that he knew was gone, but what was being laid at his feet was an entirely different animal. Looking at all the little serene faces staring back at him made something in Desmond sick. "What exactly are you expecting me to do?"<p>

"**As you are aware when it became clear that once again the destruction of earth was emanate, my creators, your ancestors set in to motion a series of events which has led you to what is now. The plan was to preserve what they could of themselves in the genetic material of these six, and repopulate by pairing them with compatible specimens." **"That's a stupid plan." Desmond echoed the sentiment that he had stated so long ago. **"The plan was illogical," **the computer program agreed. **"As such, I devised an alternative. Provide the six with a parental unit with suitable understanding of the actions taken by those who came before, and concrete experience with the results."**

Denial sounded very good at this point, so Desmond indulged, "and this would mean me doing what?" Even though he couldn't see her, Desmond could practically feel the Temple's A.I. tilting her head to the side. **"Teach them." **She instructed him as if this were a task even the dumbest smuck to ever exist could do. The rage swelling up around his self-preservation instincts made it easy to turn away from the six innocent lives sleeping unawares in their' plastic prisons. It made it even easier to yell every foul thing he could possibly think of at his kidnapper. And garbled within the mess of insults, and barbed questioning of her intellect and breeding, were Desmond's reasons for objecting to Vesta's plan.

Vesta listened stoically, using eons' worth of experience to transcribe what Desmond was saying into what he actually meant. Despite his obvious distress, the human's points of contention were valid, she determined. She had no point of reference for what makes a good parent. The temple's consciousness could gather, and analyze tremendous amount of data. But Vesta was restricted to the field of biology and ecology. Her creators had intended for her to protect and guide the six to the future her creators had designed for them, not appoint another to supplement what she thought necessary. And though she had some leeway in the selection of who she could take with the six, Vesta could not function beyond her original programming.

Vesta could not provide the emotional component that she determined her charges would need. But these shortcomings only strengthened the validity of her own hypothesis, though Desmond may think himself inept, Vesta was by far the worse option. **"If you do not, then I must." **Vesta abruptly cut off the assassin's tirade. The computer program rearranged her features into what her files catalogued as a remorsefully helpless stare. Desmond snorted, not at all fooled by the expertly mimicked expression. "I might have believed that look," he crossed his arms over his chest, "if it wasn't so stiff it makes my teeth hurt." Not bothering to maintain the façade, Vesta nodded. **"And that is why it must be you."** His dark head ducked, masking his discomfort.

But he could not hide the tenseness in his unclad form. Vesta's sensors registered the faint goose pimples currently pebbling his arms, and almost microscopic flush of his skin. **"I cannot give them humanity. I am not human." **The hologram glimpsed something of a bitter smile curving Desmond's scared lip. "I'm not so certain; you sure do fuck up enough to be human." Vesta cocked her phantom head, **"I do not comprehend your statement." **His angst filled grin turned a touch feral, "This is not my fight. I don't want to be here." **"And yet you are here. You only have to ask yourself, what you are going to do about it." **The assassin's face lifted with an ugly grimace, 'backed into a corner again.'

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><p>It had taken 9 months, 9 brutally tedious and assuredly laborious months of learning, cajoling, arguing, and finally outright threatening, Vesta was going to let him out of her temple. Desmond didn't know how the last was any more effective that former, seeing as he spent the entire time in the buff. The former bartender had demanded his clothes back after their initial debate upon his waking, only for him to find out that the same tentacles that held him down while entering stasis cut his clothes off as well. And Vesta refused to return his hidden blade, for fear of Desmond doing something stupid. To say the least Desmond was too emotionally exhausted to kick up more of fuss than he already had.<p>

Instead Altair's descendent spent the rest his stay recovering, and pumping the A.I. for information. The need to survive took the place of his molten rage, and left barefoot of anything else, Desmond was keen on using the massive store of knowledge. It also had the added benefit of keeping the now bearded assassin from being dragged under by the ever present threat of the bleeding effect. The phantom of Altair's personality was especially uneasy, as the man's life was dictated by the rising and setting of the sun. Desmond often found himself unconsciously triggering the hidden blade that wasn't there, cold fury gripping him, as he recalled more than a few times his arrogant ancestor being held against his will.

It was only when looking upon the sleeping ones that Ezio's paternal instincts squeezed incessantly against the confines of Desmond's chest, demanding things of him he didn't understand. More often than not Desmond avoided even looking at his 'students' for fear that whatever definition-less action the remnant of Ezio wanted him to take would override the brown eyed man's self control. So he asked questions, how far underground were they? How did Vesta keep track of everything whilst they were nowhere near the surface?

Vesta's answers were as disturbing as they were informative. Apparently, an earthquake had dislodged the Abies from its original perch atop a hill over-looking the lake sometime after its landing. They were buried under tons of rubble, and would have remained so had it not been for the Anorian settlers. Desmond learned that humans had survived the destruction of earth. Some had even evolved to the same state as those who came before, and called themselves Ainur. The people who had discovered the Abies were their descendants, whom had claimed the piece of real-estate was their capitol.

In between the often spontaneous history/ geography/ anthropology lessons, Desmond worked to regain the strength he lost in his 3 million year nap. First the only remaining assassin explored the "ship quarters" where he and the 6 were kept. The "quarters" was surprisingly large, yet depressingly empty place. Besides the pods at the center of the "room" there were niches in the walls, housing bunks within them. Above the niches, were storage units, which could be reached by a metal ladder which had casters attached to the legs. Vesta had said that there were clothes inside them. He had cried foul when all he found was the practically see-through number he had glimpsed in Adam and Eve's memory.

Vesta had sworn that the "birthday suit" was better than any **"inferior anthropoid manufactured textiles"** he had ever dressed in. And then proceeded to list all of the features, including and not limited to, **"atmospheric sensors ideal for retaining optimal body core temperature, a Carbon Nanotube weave throughout the garment, making it almost impossible to destroy, and microscopic robots that were designed to locate and destroy topical parasites."** Desmond didn't particularly care how many toys it came with, the birthday suit wasn't an option if he and the six were going to survive this new world.

As his endurance increased, Desmond wondered further and further from the quarters. Eventually, the former bartender began to use the entire ship as an obstacle, having Vesta rearrange the walls and floors around him as Desmond tried to reach "the command center" which doubled as the main space of her temple. But as he grew stronger, the former bartender grew more impatient. The vitamin enriched packets of slime he had to eat every few hours tasted like bile on his tongue. Time seemed all the slower with only the super computer, and the voices inside the assassin's head as company. Desmond wanted out.

Concessions were made on both sides, and after god knows how long without the solace of sunlight Desmond was about to see the world that he had learned about through the computer program's spying. Of course he would have to wear the necklace Vesta had designed with the camera built into it, and wear the practically see-through body-suit to get outside, but as far as Desmond was concerned it was worth it. Staring steel daggers at the sealed entrance, the only surviving assassin tried his best not to fidget. Twitch worthy excitement had the now long haired human wanting to pry open the doors himself. But Desmond contained himself, lest his quasi warden come up with some other ridiculous argument against him leaving.

He waited patiently as he dare for Vesta's all clear, and all but willed there to be no problems. The walls blocking Desmond's freedom suddenly peeled away, shaking the ancient structure that he had inhabited for the better part of 3 million years. The air was stale yet unexpectedly dry considering the depth at which they were buried. He stepped out of the temple for the first time since his awakening, and was shocked at what he saw. What he expected to be a ratty man-made hole in the ground, with at best a few feet of clearance was in actuality a veritable treasure trove with obviously valuable items just sitting around the room.

Exposed shelves glittered with jewels under the soft light of the glow sticks Abies's avatar provided him. Tall columns jutting out of the ground were completely enveloped in the curvy writing Desmond recognized from his lessons. Armaments were displayed in the procession of stern faced statues surrounding the only other exit. Vesta's voice suddenly flowed through the discreet blue pendant, dangling from the end of Desmond's equally unassuming chain. **"Though they were unable to breech the walls of the Abies, the Anorians, built a vault around our outer hull." **The assassin move between the statues, flipping open chest lids as he went until, "jackpot," he kneeled in the dirt, rummaging through the trunk filled to the brim with clothes.

"**Desmond you do not need those." **Agitated, the dark haired assassin stopped his perusal of at least some form of clothing, to glare directly at the bubble around his neck. "You said blend, well I can't very well blend if everybody I'm going to meet stares at me like I lost my fucking mind for walking around naked." **"You aren't- **"To these guys I will be, or did you or did you not say, that the people of Arda as a collective have a medieval mentality?" Desmond felt positively glorified when he forced the A.I.'s silence. Turning his attention back to his former task, Vesta's chosen immediately began tossing articles he wouldn't be caught dead in to miscellaneous corners.

Tunics longer than his knees, and flamboyant brightly colored shirts were instantly discarded, along with panty hose and soft bottomed shoes. Finally finding plain black pants, the assassin all but threw them on, hastily tightening the draw string so that they would fit his near skeletal waist. The deep cuffed shirt he found wasn't nearly as non-descript, but the impact of the fine linen was lessoned under the thigh long, hooded black vest Desmond put over it. And when found a pair of high quality boots to wear, the assassin finally felt comfortable enough to look for other things he would need to outside his haven/prison. A wan but honest grin stole across Desmond's chapped lips, things were finally going his way.


	3. Welcome to Bree: New Arrival

A/N: Another day another chapter. As always I thank all my reviewers, and look forward to hearing my readers input. –Rei

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><p>What is a friend? A single soul dwelling in two bodies.- Aristotle<p>

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><p>When-You're-Evil- Oh yeah I can just imagine it. But I'm going to do you one better in this chapter. You ask for hilarious awkwardness, ye shall receive.<p>

Luna Tigra- Desmond has always struck me as normal guy stuck in fucked up situations. It's too bad that the games don't focus more on him, seeing as he is a great character in terms of dimensions.

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><p>Musical Inspiration for this chapter: Miss Independent by Kelly Clarkson, I walk alone by Saliva, and Are you That Somebody by Aaliyah.<p>

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><p>The sun had barely risen in the land of Bree when a seamstress by the name of Sadaana was roused from her bed by the only friends she had in the whole of Eriador. Pervinca Greenthumb was a hobbit lass, born and raised in village of Straddle, just outside the Bree village proper. Unlike most her kin the pale haired hobbit was outgoing, and out-spoken. She was friendly with everyone unless they gave her cause to be otherwise. More often than not Pervinca earned looks of disapproval from her fellow hobbits, because she made friends amongst the big-folk who passed through the Prancing Pony. This was how Sadaana came to live there, and work for another hobbit, whom Pervinca introduced her to.<p>

Ennaido, Sadaana's other friend was the wife of a stable-hand, and a laundress herself in the same shop Sadaana worked at. She and her husband Rorin were blessed with three sons, only one of whom had seen past his first year. Because they could not afford a nursemaid while they worked to feed and clothe themselves and their children, Ennaido often left the children with Sadaana on her days off. And though the heavy set woman wasn't much older than former wanderer in appearance, Ennaido still thought of the fairly naïve woman as the daughter she never had.

It was also for this reason that Ennaido was determined to make a proper wife out of the fair-skinned Gondorian. Pervinca was an enthusiastic supporter of Ennaido's attempts to get men of Bree to regard the beautiful but proud woman as marriageable. The lack of propriety on Pervinca's part had left the poor lass with few suitors amongst her own people, who could appreciate her boldness. Sadaana knew that both of her friends merely wanted for not to die an old maid, and thus didn't put up too much a fuss when they decided to bring up the topic of her bachelorette status. But looking down from her window Sadaana couldn't help but think that this was getting out of hand.

Pervinca stood upon Ennaido's shoulders, her hands cupped around her mouth to project her voice as loud as she dare. Both had maniacal grins plastered to their faces that Sadaana was long familiar with. "Are you daft? Not even the light of Ainur has kissed the ground yet, and you're at my door." She hissed down at them. In the halls of Minis Tirith the day rarely began early for ladies, and those in their service. And though she herself had gotten used to rising with the sun, that did not mean she liked it. The human and hobbit grinned toothily up at her, beckoning for Sadaana to leave to comfort of her tiny room in the inn to go to the hovel that was Ennaido's home.

"Don't be like that Sadaana, didn't you hear? According to Grace Mr. Butterbur has received a guest in the night, a mighty handsome and well off guest at that. We have to get you ready before the vultures' descend." Sadaana valiantly fought the urge to throw something out her window at the all too perky Pervinca. Had she been awake enough to do so, the gray eyed seamstress would have laughed. Though Bree didn't host a large quantity of pretty unattached women, there were still a number of shrewd and attractive local merchant daughters, who looked to marry older men whom did well for themselves, in the hopes of becoming rich widows.

They looked down upon those of the working class as little more than ignorant fodder that they could order around and belittle as they please. Sadaana rolled her eyes. The sycophants that were her "competition" couldn't hold a candle to the political animals that occupied the white tower. Either way Sadaana had no inclination to play their petty games. "Come back at a reasonable hour, and I might consider it." Getting up the tall woman closed her shutters, and dropped her dressing gown to the floor, determinedly ignoring the rocks being thrown at the only window in her small room.

Carefully navigating the now dark space, Sadaana easily found the solidly built dresser taking up most of the space in her room. On the dark lacquered surface there was soap, towel-let, and a bowl of water which the seamstress used to wash away the small amount of grime from her body. The lady within her cringed at using soiled water now, but Pervinca wouldn't care if she were still in her pajamas. The hobbit lass would drag her out by her hair if it meant "helping Sadaana" get a husband. The tall woman quickly discarded her nightgown and used the water to bathe herself. She was more than a little aware of the current lack of rocks hitting her window.

Taking off her sleeping cap, Sadaana threw it on her small bed, which was shoved against the wall opposite of both the dresser, and door. She then quickly retrieved her linen chemise and spring gown, studiously ignoring the sudden and obnoxious knocks upon her door. Sadaana dressed quickly, and efficiently. The Gondorian didn't even bother to let down her hair which was coiled atop her head in a single thick braid. She just opened her door, and allowed herself to be whisked away by her insistent friends.

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><p>Desmond stretched out. The kinks that developed in his back from sleeping on a bed filled with straw caused his joints to make sounds akin to machine guns going off in a Los Angeles shootout. Still he relished the slow ache that settled over the burn of his tired muscles. Ezio's descendent hadn't felt this alive since he had run away from The Farm in his youth. Though he still wore the necklace that Vesta had given him, the blank stare of his savoirjailer laden with expectation was gone. And Desmond now only felt the rush of the moment, relearning how to survive outside the scope of anything resembling society.

Vesta had told him settlement of Bree when he finally convinced the A.I. to allow him out of the Abies. But once he found some form of freedom, the 24 year old was in no hurry to leave it. So he remained in the wild, on the fringes of the Brandywine for a little over 2 weeks. In that time Desmond lived off the land, eating berries Vesta identified as non-poisonous and catching fish from the river. At first, the dark eyed assassin thought he was once again in the grip of the bleeding effect, the stress of being so far away from anything vaguely familiar causing the memories to manifest suddenly and forcefully. It had taken Desmond days to notice in all the memories that there was the coldly familiar weight of a gun pressing tightly against his thigh.

It had taken him a week to notice the memories of his childhood mingling, and overlapping with Altair's recollections of his own upbringing. It was disturbingly similar up until Desmond tenth birthday. That was when Desmond decided to abandon the path that he was born into; it was also at that age that Altair decided to stay. And when he wasn't curled into a ball desperately trying to will away the intrusive thoughts and feelings Desmond was never more grateful to have ran. Shuddering, the travel-beaten man levered himself out of bed, and onto his boot-clad feet. Unthinkingly, the American shouldered on the white tunic he had worn the night before, and settling the hooded quilted jerkin over that.

From under his pillow, Desmond retrieved the only weapon he forced himself to carry. 10 inches of Anorian steel caught a sliver of light escaping the cracks of the shutters in the window. It was thin, only a half inch thick and un-adorned making it a perfect weapon for an assassin. Easily stowing away the stiletto in a bracer hidden under his voluminous left sleeve, Desmond began to make his way downstairs. He had find work. The few gold coins he had brought with him wouldn't support him for very long.

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><p>"Hold still child!" Ennaido scolded Sadaana as she attempted to weave tiny white flowers into her now loosed hair. Ignoring the mothering peasant, Sadaana glared balefully at Pervinca who snickered quietly as the hobbit put the finishing touches on her beaded shoes. The two intervening busy-bodies had dragged her to Ennaido's home, and presented her with the gown she was now wearing. Sadaana contemplatively fingered the simple geometric brown damask of her trailing sleeves.<p>

"I still think this too fine a work to waste on me," she said ignoring the scoff that answered her. Sadaana could tell by the quality of the stitching the Bree woman head spent weeks making this surprise which was presented to her as a means to attract a handsome stranger, rather than a birthday celebration like it was intended. "You should have made it for yourself," Sadaana persisted, "to wear for Rorin for the next market festival." The former Gondorian's mind supplied endless recollections of finer dresses, and even more extravagant parties. But to her the honest jubilation of the home she found far exceeded the dangerous frailty of the courts in Minis Tirith.

Sadaana had seen the rise and fall of both men and women within the span of a few sentences. She herself had been a pawn the political intrigue, and felt sick on herself with just thinking about it. The seamstress wondered what her father would think of her now, if he were to have seen her. For all the man's love of her, could he have understood his middle child's distaste for the world that she equally served, and loathed? Could forgive her for running when he already lost so many loved ones already? Sadaana didn't think so.

"I'd only be a waste if you didn't use that charm I know you have girl." Ennaido drew Sadaana away from her deep thoughts with a grimace. The laundress finished with doing the gray eyed woman's hair, moved to stand in front of the stool Sadaana sat on. The shapely woman clucked her tongue at the ugly look on the seamstress's face. "Now none of that, you're fit to be a right lady today. You'll turn that mysterious guest's head for sure. And Eru willing, love, marriage, and healthy children will soon follow." Ennaido's words sounded just as prophetic as they were damning to Sadaana's ears.

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><p>Desmond eyed his prospective employer with mild discomfort. Barliman Butterbur was by no means intimidating. But the mousy looking man was nosey to the tenth power. The assassin supposed he shouldn't be surprised. Bree wasn't a city, and not being densely populated it was infinitely easier to keep track of people. Towns like this were bound to be tight-knit, or at least more closely linked. And being the new person in a rural town meant that wary curiosity was inevitable. Knowing this however did not settle the unease rolling in Desmond's gut. As a bartender, Desmond more often than not just became part of the scenery, and thus only afforded the cursory glance at best.<p>

He had thought being behind a bar top again would ease the awkwardness that had Desmond almost always reaching for his blade. But alas Butterbur, while seemingly absentminded still asked questions that the assassin wanted left alone. It didn't help that the dining room of the inn was curiously filled with spying eyes and ears so early in the morning. "Ye ain't no ranger Desmond, if ye don't mind me saying so. Ye don't strike me as non them shady types, so why does a well to do man like you need work here for?"

The only surviving human of the Earth before Arda felt an almost overwhelming urge to kill the man. Shaking his head, Desmond pathetically attempted to conjure up a small smile. "I'm just trying to set down roots is all Mr. Butterbur. I've lived out there," The assassin made a deliberately vague gesture towards the general direction of outside. "So long, that I think it's time to join civilization again," he continued. It was complete and utter bullshit, but it was the only elaboration he was willing to give.

"Ahh, the maidens of Bree will be glad to hear it. A handsome lad like you would make a fine groom for any one of them." Desmond definitely didn't like the sly tone in the inn owner's voice, nor did he even remotely care for the casual flick of the man's grubby hands toward a giggling group of brightly clothed females. They took the innkeeper's gestured as an invitation and joined them, giggling all the while. Upon closer inspection Desmond automatically rated them at (IP) on his internal screw-o-meter for illegal punany. None of those girls were anywhere close to 18, but to a man who hasn't had any form of sex in over 3 million year anything with two legs and curious lack of diseases looked appealing.

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><p>Sadaana walked into the Prancing Pony as if she were going to her own execution, with her head held high, and her stomach taking residence in her feet. The ebony haired lady had stalled as best she could hoping that the two interloping partners in crime would give up. Instead Pervinca gave a sweet grin that had not an ounce of innocence in it. "It's getting to be about breakfast time then. Why don't you head back to the Pony, and get yourself some biscuits and broth?" Sadaana's answering glare should've sent the little female running. But the loud groans of hunger pain her stomach were making took away any credibility to Sadaana's stare. So the irritated and hungry seamstress returned to the inn, she could still go unnoticed if she acted naturally.<p>

Now looking at what the fuss was about, Sadaana had to admit, Bree's newest arrival was a pretty thing to look at. The pale eyed woman could see at a distance that the man was as tall as her average countrymen, but that was where the similarities ended. This Desmond of the wilds obviously hadn't seen the sun in a long time. His skin was almost insipid in its depth, and his frame garbed as it was in high quality apparel was still noticeably boney from a lack of nutrition. The tangled mess of dark brown hair hung around his gaunt face, too wild to tame with a brush, and too short to tie away from his face. A face she found no less handsome for the scar upon his lip, or the exhaustion that darkened his already near pitch black eyes.

Pity caused Sadaana to move without thinking. She could see that Bree newest mystery bachelor was surrounded by "the vultures" and quite uncomfortable by the amount of regard he was party to. The brightly dressed ladies paid no heed to the obviously hunted look on the haggard man's face, too busy trying to capture his admiration. They chattered incessantly around him asking the poor man all sorts of questions, and rarely allowing him to answer. And worst of all, she could see bumbling Barliman Butterbur encouraging this behavior.

Sadaana's unintended steps led her to the table where they sat, ignoring the sneers that twisted pretty faces whilst she called attention to herself. "Good morn Mr. Butterbur is breakfast ready yet." Deliberately Sadaana arched a thin brow in a calculated expression, as if the Bree-lander had forgotten that he had other guest to attend entirely. The burley proprietor sputtered, pushing his seat backwards in a hasty move, apologizing as he quickly retreated to the kitchen. Sadaana quickly took the vacated seat, smiling at the nervous man beside her. The gray eyed lady might not have any inclination to press a suit, but she would help keep the vultures at bay.


	4. Welcome to Bree: Falling in Love

"Fight or flight implies a permanent choice. But flight often just means putting off the fight to another day. Choose your battles wisely Alice." –Doctor Wilson Alice: Madness Returns

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><p>Musical Inspiration: Creeping in My Soul by Cryoshell, Why Don't You &amp; I by Carlos Santana, and Just Breathe Anna Nalick<p>

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><p>AN: Sorry for the long update but I had other things to do. I'm having a portrait done of Desmond, and Sadaana based off this fic by a very talented artist Lelia of . Hopefully you'll be hearing from me again soon. –Rei

When-You're-Evil- Awkward yes, Panic? Maybe not so much.

Luna Tigra- Thank you, Desmond is such a sympathetic character and I wanted to show that in this fic.

Isis the Sphinx- I'm glad you like it. I had to do some research for this fic to see how Desmond's story would fit into the Tolkien world.

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><p>It was as if the whole of the Bree-lands tried to squeeze into the Prancing Pony. And Halbarad Sindar of the gray company was both baffled and pleased that he and his companions went mostly un-hindered by the usual wariness of the towns-people. "Welcome back Halbarad, I assume you and your company's wanderings were well." The captain of the Gray Company looked down to see one of the few Bree-landers that held no malcontent for the rangers of the north. Pervinca looked up at him with a wicked little smile, her hands folded neatly over the pleats of her pumpkin colored skirt.<p>

The young hobbit was a wonderful informer of the goings on in Bree, and the fact that she had little qualms in doing so despite her fellow towns-folk, it was a distinct mark in her favor with himself and his men."It has Pervinca, and it is good to see you in high spirits. Though I must admit some trepidation at so many are here so early." And bless her heart; Pervinca didn't even blink at the subtle demand for answers. She just motioned for one of his men to pull out a chair for her so that she could sit next to him.

"There was a traveler in the night, a wealthy man from the wilds." Pervinca gave him a mock accusatory look, "do you know him?" Halbarad's stern features didn't relax in the slightest bit, even as he raised his hands in an equally mocking surrender to the golden headed female's facetious scowl. Hazadaeth, and Henry whom were the only others his company whom dined to come with him on this excursion, discreetly coughed. They were long used to their commander's strange interaction with the little folk especially this particular lass of the little folk.

"I know not even the name of this mysterious guest of yours. Perhaps that will jog my memory if ever I met the man?" Halbarad's voice was decidedly dry in his own brand of humor. He leaned back in his seat, one of the few left from where the rest of those dining in the inn crowded around a single table. And as he did so, it wasn't hard to see the slightly more thoroughly searching look Pervinca shot him. The ranger was only slightly annoyed his golden headed friend assumed that he somehow knew about whatever came from the wilds of the North. To be fair he spent years wandering the Northern downs.

"Desmond was the name he gave to the guard on duty at the gate." The ranger was distracted from commenting on the strange nature of the name when he watched someone he recognized walked into the inn. Halbarad's jaw dropped as Sadaana of all people made her way to the table where the subject of their conversation was being swarmed by the most eligible women in the village. Garbed in a gown of chocolate damask, the frigid lady easily achieved the majesty of a woman of noble birth, where the others were but insipid imitations grasping at straws.

"Pervinca, what have you done?" asked a very much dazed Henry, voicing the stunned question that was unable to take form on his captain's tongue. It was no secret that Sadaana was the subject of much incessant nit-picking by her friends to find a husband. Pervinca had even once attempted to turn Halbarad's eye on the mysterious Gondorian maid. That was not to say the gray eyed ranger wasn't amiable to the idea. Sadaana was sharp of wit, and comely lady despite the weathering of her skin through years of labor.

But Sadaana was uninterested in marriage. All attempts of initiating courtship were evaded with long conversations of her various adventures that led her to Bree, and tales of his many wanderings around the North. She had done much the same to all the rangers whom Ennaido and or Pervinca convinced to vie for Sadaana's hand. "What," the hobbit glared at them defensively, "you thought that she was going to wait for one of you to come to your senses?" Honestly Henry wondered when Sadaana would tire of Pervinca, and Ennaido's prodding.

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><p>Sadaana shot an encouraging yet sympathetic smile at the one whom she was saving from the clutches of eager socialites. The poor man obviously had no societal mores from which he could draw, and was clearly stuck just trying to not drown in the maneuverings that would sat him at the mercy of his interrogators. Desmond responded with a gratefully inquisitive grin, confused but glad for whatever help he could get. Sadaana turned her attention to the worst of his antagonizes, "Good morn Bonny, I trust you and your friends have been keeping Mr. Butterbur's new guest much entertained?"<p>

Sadaana was glorified with the momentary indignant sputtering of her nastiest tormentor since coming to Bree. Bonny Lamedon was born and raised in the village Bree proper. But her father, Nick was a trader whom married above his station to a lady of central Gondor for which her daughter derived her last name. Bonny never let anyone forget it either. "If you knew how to entertain a man, low-born perhaps they would keep you as a pet for more than one night." The woman's underlings tittered woodenly unusually cooperative now that a lower class woman seemingly encroached upon what they perceived as their territory.

Forcibly relaxing the set in her shoulders Sadaana smiled tightly. "And you of course are an authority of such things. I suppose your poor father cannot buy your way into the patronage of even an ignominious lord?" Bonny's face turned a sickening puce in her rage. Her perfectly manicured nails curled like talons, nearly ripping in chiffon overlay of her cerise pink gown. Her pretty sun-kissed features contorted in a valiant effort to retain the illusion of high born civility.

Desmond was hardly fooled. It didn't take eagle-vision to spot a sow when he saw one. Honestly the assassin thought of leaving the two hell-cats to go at it. As much as many people who ever met the former runaway questioned his intelligence, Desmond wasn't stupid. The former bartender knew that any interference on his part wouldn't be appreciated by either offended party. Ghostly impressions of stinging slaps, and indignant screams flashed behind the dark haired man's eye balls, was confirmation enough of that very fact.

Ezio may have been a smooth operator in his day, but Altair most certainly hadn't been. The assassin forcibly shoved the unwanted recollections away. The brainless twits seemed to close in on wavy haired lady, who had dared to help him. 'They were pretenders,' the Ezio in his head whispered, 'women without an ounce of grace of their own, let alone the training of a true courtier.' The part of him that was born and bred for violence recognized that none of the flowery upstarts could hold a candle to the true regal beauty. Honestly Desmond felt the undeniable urge to leave. This standoff was the perfect opportunity anyone with more than two brain cells would take.

Gazing upon the quietly fierce woman at his side, Desmond still couldn't find in himself to leave. "Miss I didn't catch your name." the dark man's strangely accented voice halted the hostility of the ladies seated with him flat. And for a moment the assassin feared that he screwed up somehow. "Please excuse, if I offended you somehow. I have spoken little in many years." Once again Desmond graced his companions with his slightly stumbling Soval Pharë (common speech); bumbling through the relatively new grammar that Vesta had taught him.

"Not at all my lord," Bonny butted in trying to intercede in any conversation her target could draw the low class bastard into. The merchant's daughter glared balefully at said bastard. "Where is it that you come from again?" Because as far as the golden eyed woman was concerned there was no way that someone with such a strange cadence could come from anywhere she had ever been. Bonny found herself instinctually drawn to fairness of the stranger's skin, which spoke of a Northerner's heritage. She was equally as captivated by his dark eyes which were just as savage as any Dunlending. Bonny liked the idea of taming such a wild thing to her pleasure.

Both Desmond and Sadaana chose to ignore her. "My name is Sadaana, my lord." She finally responded with a quirk of her lips. The gray eyed lady was just as enamored with the seemingly shy male within their midst, though her feelings were more of the protective variety. Curbing the scowl she wanted to send Bonny's way, Sadaana concentrated on trying to ease the tension stiffening the already unnatural set in the man's shoulders. Spreading her palms flat upon the table top to show him she honestly meant no harm, slowly as to not startle the skittish colt of a wealthy traveler.

Still her overture seemed to merely cause more discomfort, "please, I am no lord. Call me Desmond." The assassin grimaced; baring his well cared for teeth in a brief show of distaste. It was a breadth of a glimpse but it was all that was needed for those seated with him to note the perfection of his dental hygiene. This was no common man. His teeth were white as freshly fallen snow. If anything, Bonny's gaze became more ravenous. There was no doubt in her mind this man could be no less than royalty of some kind. Only the noblest of lines would ever have enough money for herbal mixes expensive enough to produce such results.

Before the sycophant could insinuate herself between the dark haired pair, another of Bonny's flunky's spoke up. "You have a beautiful smile sir Desmond." Giggled one of the blonde's more brainless associates, Puhuur was the fourth daughter of the mariner Isen. He was captain of one of the larger vessels Bonny's father commissioned to trade with the few villages along the Brandywine. Yet not for the first time Bonny wondered why her father saw fit to force the hapless fool into her circle of associates. Surely Isen's cooperation wasn't that essential to him?

Partly bemused and equally disturbed, Desmond again desperately looked to Sadaana for a solution. The gray eyed lady was too busy staring incredulously at Puhuur to notice. The assassin's wild gaze swung back toward the hopeful sun kissed features of the giggling gaggle of air-headed elite. And he wondered, what could've he possibly done, did he somehow murder Gandhi in a previous life? Did he butt fuck mother Teresa in front of a congregation comprised of the entire holy Roman Catholic Church, what could constitute this fifth level of hell Desmond found himself in?

"I imagine you haven't had time to see the rest of Bree yet Sir Desmond?" the young lady sitting beside Puhuur asked shyly. Desmond shook his head, all too aware that his brain to mouth filter wasn't working correctly. At the gesture the girl moved in closer, the raspberry color of her velvet gown sickening bright against the clashing mint green of Puhuur's paisley gown. "Then perhaps a tour is in order?" Before Desmond could even get a word in edgewise there were calls of affirmation all around. Even his savior turned traitor moved to pull him to his feet. Sadaana leaned close, "come, we can lose them at the jewelers. Such frivolous things will distract them well enough to slip away." Unable to refute her logic, Desmond allowed himself to be pulled along.

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><p>Henry followed Pervinca out of the inn, determined to keep a close eye on the mysterious man that the hobbit was intent on seeing court her friend. Halbarad didn't stop him, curious and wary himself. Sadaana was a woman without any male kin to speak for her, as far as he knew. And once more she was a friend to himself, and a number of his subordinates. The idea of the dark haired woman coming to harm was repugnant to the ranger. So he would watch, wait, and hope that Sadaana finally found some happiness. And be there if and or when things went to pieces.<p>

Pervinca grinned madly as she and her silent shadow followed the veritable rainbow down the main street. She couldn't see who was leading the marry band of brainless fools, but the hobbit was more focused on the two people practically trailing behind the mass of pubescent hormones through the morning crowd. To the honey haired hobbit, Sadaana and Desmond were the epitome of a lord and lady straight out of the courts of Pelargir. Decked out in appropriately somber ware, the couple managed to fend off "the vultures" with almost supernatural precision.

"Pervinca, what were you thinking?" Henry hissed from his place just steps behind the honey haired hobbit. The young ranger didn't even bother trying to blend in as he kept one eye on the hobbit trying to be stealthy, and the other on the group that they were following. Every eye on the street was glued upon the group steadily making its way passed the many shops along the main street. "You don't even know the man whose favor, you are pushing Sadaana to pursue, let alone if he truly worth her affections."

Brown orbs narrowed yet didn't stray. "What business is it of yours?" Not even waiting for him to respond, the diminutive female began to hurry her steps while muttering insults about the males in general under her breathe. Nevertheless the ranger heard every word and turned the full force of his glare onto the little interloper. And silently Henry wondered when had the most clever of the little folk in Bree had become so obtuse. Sadaana's love life may not be any of his business, but it wasn't any of hers either.

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><p>Sadaana placed herself firmly on the foreigner's arm, and cattily conversed with the stragglers of their group. Desmond smiled politely and spoke little, but when tensions mounted high, the mysterious traveler would almost effortlessly intercede. An erroneous smile and quiet question seemed to the trick every time, though some persisted even then. Those who carried on were once again subjected to Sadaana, who added just a hint more acid to the already cutting bit of her tongue. The assassin was even more grateful that as of yet, none of the ladies were able to withstand the sickly sweet poisonous words of his savior yet.<p>

It felt like it took forever to get to the jewelers, so when the hanging sign came in sight a heart stopping smile stole across Desmond's face. It was instantly wiped off by the unanimous sighs of the young ladies surrounding him. Determinedly the assassin tried to shake off the call to his libido which seemed to have recovered from its 3 million year dirt nap. None of these women, and he used that term very loosely, should appeal to him; not one of them could've been more than sixteen. 'Nothing is true, everything is permitted.' Desmond couldn't prevent the flinch from rattling his less than sturdy frame.

He felt Sadaana grip his arm worriedly, and he cast a strained smile her way. Disentangling his arm from hers, the only surviving American moved toward the shop. "I must thank you all for your kindness. Please come, that I might buy a gift in my appreciation." Immediately the girls faces lit up, and even the normally clever Bonny was reduced to smiling stupidly up at him. All of them moved to follow, but quiet words Desmond mouthed her way stilled Sadaana's steps. The assassin had a plan of his own.

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><p>Pervinca watched in confused panic as the man she was banking on finally capturing her friend's heart seeming abandoned her to attend the group of floozies not even a quarter of the woman that her friend was. Henry was mature for his young age but he couldn't resist, "I told you so." He gloated quietly crossing his arms over his chest. Vindicated the ranger momentarily forgot his own concern for Sadaana to rub Pervinca's nosiness in her face.<p>

Gripping the folds of her skirts, the Bree native turned around to stick her glare at her partner in crime. "If I were but a few inches taller," Pervinca's tone was threatening despite her stature. The hobbit definitely wasn't afraid of anyone or anything, least of all one of Halbarad's rangers. But Henry was far from intimidated, the dour set in his lips curled upward in smug superiority. Pervinca was in the bad habit of getting an idea in her head and not listening to anyone else if someone contradicted her. Ennaido was much the same, only Henry didn't dare test her temper. There was something to be said about the woman's tendency toward through kitchen utensils.

Caught in his own recollections of being on the receiving end of Ennaido's temper, the stocky ranger nearly missed his much shorter acquaintance running over to join her seemingly abandoned friend. Momentarily stunned by Pervinca's stupidity, Henry was tempted to just go back to the Prancing Pony to report what he'd seen to his captain. Halbarad was a friend of Sadaana's as well, and though nowhere was nosey as the seamstress's other friends, the ranger still worried.

"What is he doing?" Sadaana all but jumped out of her skin as a voice just behind her scared her out of her anxious laced inquisitive thoughts. Turning around fast of enough to cause the train of her skirt to fan out, the ebony haired beauty gasped for breath before staring down at her smallest friend. Pervinca was glaring up at her as if somehow Desmond's sudden decision to buy the vultures trinkets was her fault. Stiffening the dark haired woman was unable to regain her regal bearings in the face both the Bree native's voiced, and un-voiced demands.

"Pervinca what in the name of Ainur do you think you're doing here?" Sadaana questioned, stunned by the fact that the hobbit had essentially spied on her. Something ugly twisted in the former Gondorian lady's gut. She had run away from her home to get away from this sort of thing. And yet here Pervinca stood, as one of Sadaana's only friends, doing the same mean-spirited shallow things that Sadaana had hoped she would never have to deal with again.

The seamstress desperately clung to her composure, caught between crying tears of frustration, screaming at her friend, or packing up her meager belongings and disappearing from Bree forever. 'Quick tempers makes for quick mistakes, and slow regrets.' She reminded herself. Shaking the haze as best she could, Sadaana struggled to speak without the deceptive call of fury clouding her words. This was her friend, and Sadaana didn't want to lose before the woman could say anything, Pervinca plowed forward without a thought in her head to stop herself. "Sadaana where is that sack of orc dung, I'll kill em' going off with those brainless trollops. I'll-

"You'll what?" Desmond glared menacingly over Sadaana's shoulder at the little troll who had insulted him. His left hand flexed with a practiced flick, causing the handle of his stiletto to drop closer to his palm. Because, although his eyes were on the little golden haired menace, his other senses were trained on the decidedly more threatening darkly garbed male she brought as back up. Desmond knew of only one way someone could move with the sort of awareness this man did. "You know these jokers Sadaana?"

Coloring with further irritated mortification Sadaana didn't dare turn around, as she glared both at Pervinca and Henry. "Unfortunately yes, Pervinca I expected something this obtuse of a scheme, but Henry you too?" Henry at least had the decency to look contrite while Pervinca stubbornly glared at her friend. The seamstress wanted to sigh. She knew all too well this side of her friend's character, and knew that her own compliance only added to the problem. This had to end, and it had to end now if Sadaana wanted to retain what was left of her dignity.

Deliberately turning to face the foreigner, Sadaana clasped her palms together. "I apologize, for my associates' behavior," the gray eyed lady ignored the indignant sputtering of her hobbit friend, and the sudden decrying answer from the young ranger. "They had it their heads for a while now that I needed to find myself a husband." Pausing Sadaana took in Desmond's reaction as emotions seemingly flashed across his face too fast to follow. "And I fear that I allowed them to push me into being no better than those," again she had to pause trying to curb the ugly words that wanted to emerge, "women who were quite shameful."

Desmond didn't know what to think. Silently the assassin observed the three people now staring at him. He understood, really he did, this wasn't his world, and even the smallest of social interaction were different. It didn't dampen the urge to jump up and down screaming while tearing his hair out in pure frustration any. And worst of all Desmond could feel the onset of a major headache coming, courtesy of the peanut gallery conducting a running commentary in the back of his mind. Straining the muscles in his face to produce a smile, the dark haired man strove to sink into denial. "I'll tell you what, finish showing me around and I'll forgive them." He grin became sincere at the relieved sigh that issued from the seamstress.

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><p>Sadaana was surprised at how well this little improv tour of Bree proper was going. Once they had given "the vultures" the slip, and left her nosey friends gaping in incredulity Desmond became a most engaging, and dare she think it 'charming' companion. The man's satiric nature shown through his often times stilted speech. With every dry observation Desmond made, either by what Sadaana informed him on, or whatever he figured out for himself, the many layers of the wild man were revealed to her. Desmond was humble, so unlike her brother whose ego could fill up the first three levels of Minis Tirith.<p>

He didn't spare any thought to her femininity when he spoke, didn't treat her as if she were a brainless twit only meant to pop out the next generation. And Sadaana respected Desmond all the more for it. Yet at the same time he didn't sacrifice the gentlemanly air about him, as Desmond led her around the village on his arm, courteously accepting the few greetings that were thrown his way. And wistfully Sadaana couldn't help but to wonder where this man was when she came of age in the white halls of her former home.

Once they returned to the Prancing Pony Desmond thanked Sadaana for her pseudo rescue and tour of Bree before entering his temporary lodgings, and closing the door behind him. Immediately the assassin began to peel away clothing from his whip-cord frame. It had been a long day. And with his lumpy bed in sight, it was all Desmond could do to collapse with a silent prayer that he wouldn't dream tonight. **"You are attracted to that female." **Desmond groaned, "what do you want now?" the assassin asked while resisting the urge to glare down at the piece of jewelry around his neck.

"**She would make a suitable maternal parental unit for the six."** Desmond froze, once again unable to believe what he was hearing. The sheer stupidity boggled the assassin's mind. "Dude, I've just met the lady and you're already talk'n bout me handing her, the keys to the castle, and having her play mommy?" The assassin's stomach flip-flopped, because despite himself Desmond managed to conjure up a fantasy of life with Sadaana as his woman raising the six.

It wasn't a stretch to picture the prim and proper woman braiding each of the children' hair, and instructing them in manners Desmond wouldn't think to teach them. He could just as easily imagine himself spending his nights with her in bed exploring each other under the fluorescent glow of the Abies's lights. Sadaana was a beautiful, smart, and not to mention fierce woman. 'What more can a young, virile man ask for?' Desmond's thoughts whispered. Blood began to pool southward, as his thoughts turned carnal. And with a frustrated groan, the assassin got up, padding over to the bowl of water on the dresser. "I hate you all, so fucking very much."


	5. Pesterings of a Motherhen Super Computer

**A/N**: Thank you my readers and reviewers for your patience, it has taken me forever to write this chapter, so I hope you all enjoy it. As always my updating may be sketchy due to bitch slapping musi, school, and just plain ol being tired, thus resulting in the perfect storm for writers block. To combat the block I need help in the form of reviews, so please keep them coming. As always flamers will be shot. – Rei

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><p>Musical inspiration for this chapter: Awake and Alive by Skillet, I won't back down by Eminem ft. Pink, King of Sorrow Sade<p>

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><p>miss-cold – Thanks, this fic was born from my deep and abiding hatred of the Denethor character so I'm going to give into my inner sadistic bitch and make him as miserable as I possibly can.<p>

Deadzepplin- short answer, yes but you're going to have wait for next chapter to see what it is.

Sylandrea- thank you for the love besides my hatred of Denethor, I love unexpected crossovers and finding was of making the combos work.

Isis the Sphinx- The plot is really going to take shape after this chapter but you're just going to wait and see.

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><p><em>April 17, 2985<em>_th__ year of the Third Age _

_Estel, tidings from the Shire, Evendim, North Downs, and Moores are as the Lord Elrond fears. The presence of Orcs has increased exponentially for seemingly no reason. Agmar has become more active as of late, though I thank Oromë every day that none of the nine has been spotted as of yet. But still those of the witch kings fief have been more of a terrible burden upon us of Esteldin, whom have long labored against the shadow of Agmar. And worse still there are those of the foul ilk whom managed to infiltrate the North Downs all the way to the boarders of the Shire. For what purpose, I do not yet know. _

_I also bring you tidings of a mysterious foreigner, who now frequents the Bree village proper. Desmond has the look of a Dunlending with Northern blood to pale his skin. He claims to have wondered about the Brandywine for a time. I find this suspect, as I have no reports of his likeness from any of our rangers in the whole of Eriador. He is wealthy enough to be recognizable._

_The man is generous with his coin which is of Annuminas origin. My own worst suspicion is that he is an agent of Agmar, come to spy upon those of Bree-land. He often wanders without any warning for days at a time, only to return just as mysteriously laden with fine goods of the abandoned city. When injurious minds see fit to ask the source of his fortune Desmond claims that it part of his inheritance._

_I have already attempted to set a watch upon this man, but to no avail. By whatever means he manages to slip by them, to wherever it is he goes to retrieve the treasures he brings back. And though "Whitehood" as many of the Bree-landers have come to call him, is viewed with almost as much suspicions as any ranger, his generosity affords him a certain benefit of the doubt. To this end my lord I know naught what to do, and am most desirous to hear you opinion on these grave matters._

_Sincerely- Halbarad of Esteldin _

Estel Elrondion gazed upon the words of his kinsman and friend with equal parts worry and agitation. Though he could not fault his fellow edain's caution, the foster son of Elrond knew Halbarad had overstepped himself. Regardless of the increasingly ominous presence of their enemy's forces, the captain of the gray company should have not let fear dictate his actions. These were times when even the gentlest of souls had cause to possess questionable skills if they were to survive. This Whitehood could just be as he said to be, from what little he reported of himself according to Halbarad.

Still the son of Arathorn trusted his subordinate's instincts. Though Halbarad might have naught save his own suspicion, and the dubious doings of his query to rely upon, there was still something there that Halbarad seemed to deem cause enough to send his liege word. "Are you well my lord?" The Dunedain looked up from the soiled stationary in his hand, to the young ranger currently in his company.

Niluana, like Halbarad was amongst his edain parents few surviving immediate kin. He was by no means related closely enough to be considered for kingship, but it didn't make Estel wish he was any less. "Halbarad's tidings of the black legions' movements are grave, though not unexpected. Orc presence has increased in the Bree-lands. But he also fears a spy amongst the village proper" The exiled king watched the hammer jawed youth contemplate his dilemma with a careful silence.

Niluana was very grave for a man of just 42 summers, Estel mused willfully ignoring the fact that he himself was only a good ten or so years the brunette's senior. "What does Halbarad know of this spy?" The stockier ranger asked. Estel knew that if Niluana so much as grunted, he already had an idea in mind, and was merely getting all the information he could to see if it was actually viable. The brown eyed ranger had existed in the cusp of battle, living with a contingent of ranger in Enedwaith bordering Dunland most of his life.

And it showed. In the crocked set of his prominent nose, in every jagged scar the peaked beneath his gear, Niluana was a soldier whose teeth were filed by the bite of steel. And Estel couldn't help but wonder how such a man could follow one such as himself. "Nothing much, there is little news of this Desmond, outside of his ventures in the village of Bree. Halbarad thinks him a Dunlending half breed." The former ward of Rivendell could see Niluana visibly hesitate. "Come, I would have the wisdom of your council."

For another beat the ranger held his silence then, "I could go to Bree, seek out the answers myself." The un-voiced questions in the man's tone both confused and worried Estel. Niluana wasn't prone to show it when he was anything less than certain. The younger edain began to subtly fidget. "It may be easier because I would know what to look for." Still the unease made the older ranger falter in automatically doing what Niluana suggested.

Estel was well aware that the wrong words from him now could cause the thoughtful man at arms to once again sink back into himself. "I have no authority in which to command you thus. Such a journey would take you from where you are needed. But I find this," Estel indicated the travel stained piece of paper in his hand, "is also of great concern." "My only doubts lay in your own my friend. Speak your mind truly. What troubles you?"

"I have no desire to leave Enedwaith," Niluana said immediately surprising them both. "Be that as it may, you are needed more here than I." The darkly garbed ranger raised his hand to stop the protest that he could see welling up in his captain's throat. "You would ask precious few to complete the task I intend for myself, none of whom you would ask are here my lord." The grizzled man felt his scared lip twitch into a miniscule smile as Estel's defiance swiftly turned to sheepishness. In a small way Niluana was glad his liege urged him to speak.

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><p>No one who knew Gromsnik would ever come to the conclusion that the Orc was remotely intelligent. That being said, despite his questionable I.Q. Gromsnik had a healthy survival instinct. He was a rarity in his species, Gromsnik was cautious. And it was this very facet of his own nature that enabled him to survive longer than those whom emerged on the same day. Orcs weren't created to think for themselves beyond the gratification of the kill. And those who were even suspected of such were often put to death.<p>

So when his more bloodthirsty cohorts caught scent of human flesh, unlike them Gromsnik did not go tearing off after the unseen pray. He had no wish to die at the hand of his "prey", less want for dying at the hands of fellow Orcs to obtain said prey, and desired dying at the hand of his superiors who would do so just because, least of all. Black lips peeled away to reveal half rotted fangs. Gromsnik inhaled sharply, dissecting the smells currently crowding his orifice. The stench of blooming pine was easily filtered out along with the familiar flavor of sulfur soaked blood.

Gromsnik slowed down even more, but he dare not stop for fear of the nameless leader of his company noticing. There wasn't any edain blood wetting the air. The screams were also decidedly non-human. He still didn't dare to stop, whatever lay ahead was still less of concern compared to what Gromsnik already knew. Unconsciously the orc shuddered as the sensory memory of his "birth" shook his entire muscular frame. Still shaking, the vile creature made ready his crossbow, edging closer and closer to the battle he could only hear.

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><p>Desmond stepped forward, ducking under the broad axe swing of his soon to be dead assaulter. He didn't even blink as the stiletto curled within his fist found its way between the ribs of the creature that just tried to split his skull in half. Planting his feet to stop his forward momentum, Desmond's thin blade slide out, and the assassin had to quickly turn in order not to fall on his ass. The blind swing resulted in another hit, catching a thick necked orc right above its armor slitting its throat ear to ear.<p>

Desmond's momentum continued, forcing the dark haired man to bend his knees in order to retain balance. Stiletto met Scimitar, and the inferior weapon was sent flying out of the lightly garbed man's grasp. Desmond hissed the tip of the soiled blade sliced through soft tissue, scoring deeply into the palm of his hand. Snatching the appendage away from further injury, the last assassin rapidly back-pedaled. He was barely able to avoid a bolt in the back, via surprisingly timid enemy. Desmond bit back a curse as another bolt flew over his head, missing the apex of his cranium by bare centimeters.

Rolling away from his only weapon, the assassin desperately tried to keep away from the slobbering menaces currently trying to kill him. Wary Desmond finally looked around at the carnage. Two dead orcs were crushed under foot of their two comrades who snarled and snapped at each other just as much as they did at him. The third giant hunk of snot hung back, his keen black eyes staring the hooded man down through the crosshairs of his weapon. Desmond edged sideways hoping to lure the most dangerous of the three closer.

Only the orc's weapon turned to follow him. Eagle dark eyes darted around, before once again settling on the beefy creature holding the crossbow. The curly haired wanderer could easily dispose of the two monsters trying to flank him. Neither showed any sort of proficiency with the weapons they were wielding, nor did either orc show any sort of intelligence to adapt to the lack of skill. Intimidation and size were these creatures main line of offense. Unluckily for them, Ezio, and Altair were anything but pushovers.

Shaking off the invading thought patterns, Desmond quickly closed the gap between him and the orcs. Kicking the closest solidly in the crotch, the assassin put the crippling distraction to good use, using the momentarily incapacitated evil creature as a shield against his comrades. Ignoring the sickening crack of a skull being punctured all the way through, Altair's descendant took hold of the now dead orc's weapon, and parried the thrust which would have otherwise spilled Desmond's guts all over the forest floor.

Keeping the dead body between him and the archer, Desmond lunged, taking a broad swipe at his opponent's legs. The Orc leapt back with a snarl, narrowly avoiding being taken out at the knees. And once again, the last assassin had to desperately maneuver his "shield" to avoid getting shot while retreating from the retaliatory swipe at his face. Ghosting muscle memory caressed already aroused autonomic nerves, equal parts guiding, and distracting him in this fight. Desmond knew that he had to end this confrontation quickly. His grip on the stinking carcass of his makeshift shield was tenuous at best.

Stubbornly, Vesta's former ward ignored the ragged parting of flesh gapping in the palm of his dominate hand. Harder to ignore was the viscous black blood, spilling over Desmond's hooded head and down his shoulders, soaking his skin through his clothes. The tar like consistency was going to be impossible to get out, thus insuring that Desmond was going to have to replace yet another set of clothing. Now more than ever the last assassin was glad that Vesta was silent throughout the confrontation.

He didn't want to hear about how the blood would have never penetrated "the birthday suit" or how much better off he would be wearing it, instead to the inferior textile weave. Still, the coco eyed former run away knew Vesta was watching. He just hoped the soft glow of the pendant tucked away under his shirt didn't prove fatal. A wry grimace revealed the gleaming enamel of his teeth, as Desmond made another bid at getting extremely close to his opponent, while slashing from the opposite direction just as fast.

Distracted, the orc was crushed under the weight of Desmond's meat shield. The assassin unceremoniously dumped the dead body on top of the orc, and awkwardly rolled away to avoid yet another bolt being planted in his cranium. Once again grabbing the first weapon he could get a hold of, the former New Yorker didn't give the downed muddled skinned monstrosity a chance to get up. Desmond lobbed a stone almost the twice the size of his fist at the orc's head, scoring a gory victory. And again ducked for cover, 'I am going to survive this.' Desmond all but commanded of himself.

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><p>"My lady." "Your grace." "Your ladyship." "Sweet lady." Finduilas daughter of Adrahil barely managed to properly acknowledge the addresses she received from the inhabitants of her gilded cage. It had been months since the veil of affection for her husband had been pulled from the former lady of Dol Amroth's eyes. And yet the ugliness that she now knew seemed to know no end. Where once Denethor's stern lordly manner only made the pale noble woman want to kiss away his dour frown, now it was all that Finduilas could do not to flinch away in horror.<p>

Denethor's outburst notwithstanding, the Stewart of Gondor had made no effort to restore the illusion of the chivalrous man that Finduilas had consented to marry. Instead her dark eyed husband had become even stricter than when she first took up her duties as his wife. It had been Denethor whom chose her ladies in waiting, and appointed their household staff. Both tasks which by right of wifehood were hers, and yet she thought it out of concern for her, that Denethor did this. Finduilas was young, and new to the city. And with such a stern husband like Denethor, what better gift than to lighten the burden of duty?

Now catching the intent looks following her, did the darkly haired lady understood. It was all about control. Every person in Finduilas's tenure that swore their fealty to her reported her every move to Denethor. Every action was carefully noted and categorized, not for courtly gossip, but for careful dissection under their lord's scrutiny. Just the thought of it made Finduilas ill. As her husband the current pseudo-ruler of Gondor had a disturbing amount of power over his wife. He all but controlled where she could go, whom she could associate with, and worse still her physical being and care.

Already she had been called into account for "misconduct" toward the Eleanor Serni. The lady of Lebennin, like most courtiers was particularly similar to ripe fruit, sweet and perfectly good to eat, right up until you bit into the rotten core. The lady Serni was perfectly even tempered and pleasant company, even as every poisonous bit of gossip passed her painted lips. Finduilas had always found interacting with the vain woman to be a chore, but in this particular instance had tried the dark eyed woman's nerves beyond Finduilas's limits.

_**Flashback**_

_Corsairs of Umbar could lay siege from the sea, and Agmar could empty of ever foul creature to lay waste to the lands of men, but nothing would shake the hospitality of a proper purebred lady. Where once Finduilas would have laughed at her dearly departed mother's statement, now the Stewart's wife only found a grim sort of determination. Across from Finduilas sat Eleanor, garbed in subtle beaded refinement currently favored by the ladies in the Gondorian court. And with every sugary sweet bit of viscous smattering word being crammed through her eardrum, Finduilas found it to be just a bit harder not to snap._

_It was her duty to entertain the guest of their great house as their husbands discussed matters of state. And though Finduilas was more inclined to entertain ideas of throwing Eleanor off a cliff, and her parasitic piranha out on their backsides, the more somberly dressed lady held her temper. "You'll have to forgive me Lady Eleanor for not putting much stock in rumors; Mr. Brenan has served admirably as first amongst the tower guard. And I would think such excellent service would not be lost on my lord husband." _

_The condescending pity that greeted her defense of the well-liked vanguard was as unsurprising as it was infuriating. "Poor dear," the affectionate term never sounded so sour, "Mr. Brenan's service excels all expectations, but a little bird told me that is why he is being assigned to a more fitting post. Besides, everyone knows that his lady wife already associates with rangers of Ithilien. It's too bad your sister-in-law Alagmariel did not survive to marry the lord Pinnath Gelin, else I am sure Mr. Brenan would go with more than his grace's blessing."_

_Finduilas was no fool, she could easily pick up on the innuendo latent in the courtier's tone. In just three sentences, the factious woman had managed to insult the three people Finduilas admired most in Gondor. Brenan Whitehood was no noble born or man of the commons. He was far worse in the eyes of those intolerant lords and ladies whom only inherited their' power through their' families, a bastard of already married Gondorian noble and a woman, whose identity to this day remained a mystery. _

_It was an insult that many a noble couldn't bear, that a bastard could distinguish himself, and actually marry well. Brenan's wife Morwen was of the Alagdor, the fallen house that once ruled Ithilien, now the few members that survived were conscripted rangers. That fact didn't lesson the sting that a bastard would dare wed a highborn lady. It left a bad taste in Finduilas's mouth, "If such an assignment were issued, I should think my lord would give more than his approval." Finduilas injected as much steel in voice as she dare, knowing the lives of noblemen rested largely on the whisperings of their wives. _

_A word from his fiery haired wife, and the Lord Serni would speak out against giving any support to the rangers of Ithilien just to spite Brenan. Finduilas forced down the urge to fist the skirts her silk peacock gown. Denethor's hatred of anyone whom distinguished themselves under his father's reign was well known. The only thing stopping the gray eyed lordling was that he hadn't found anyone good enough to replace the man. 'But given incentive', Finduilas once again forced herself to act normally, taking a judicious sip of her wine, not daring to complete the thought. _

_Eleanor's smile widened cruelly, "one can only hope the wisdom and righteousness of the council will prevail."The innocent sentiment was met with quiet agreement from the hanger-ons of the lesser ladies listening in on their conversation. However Finduilas found that she could no longer stomach it. Abruptly standing, the lady of Gondor compelled herself to tilt her head respectfully in her guests' direction. "Forgive me Lady Serni. I feel quite faint all of sudden, and would retire until a later date." _

_Finduilas knew that the excuse was flimsy at best, and would reflect badly on her husband. But she had not the heart to care. Not waiting for Eleanor to respond, Finduilas silently gestured for her attendants to follow, as she swept out the hall in which she received her guests. Boromir's mother couldn't have known what the insidious whispers that followed her to her private quarters would cost her. She was even less aware of the conflicted eyes that served her silence, would soon serve her husband with honeyed venom._

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><p>"You will have to start making arrangements for the six soon." Desmond didn't even pause as he poured a bucket full of ice cold pond water over his head, automatically shaking as the chill reached his bones. "The power I have left is extremely limited. Already my fusion cells output capacity has decreased 60%, and if it drops by 20 more, the six will have to be resuscitated regardless of you stage of preparation." The assassin cut his teeth against the almost overwhelming urge to retort. Usually when Vesta dined to contact him, the darkly haired man merely chose to ignore her until she finally gave up. "I will not be able to assist them. They will die Desmond." Too bad the super computer didn't see fit to be ignored today.<p>

"Have you tried finding an alternative power source?" Desmond pushed himself to his feet, leaning away from the shallow channel that he had used to wash away the gore of black blood. Orcs weren't uncommon in the wilds of the North Downs, but it was no less taxing for Desmond, who was of the habit of leaving Bree to escape his nosey neighbors. The last assassin bent over to retrieve the sticky odorous concoction he had placed next to his now empty bucket.

"Any alternative source of power I could possibly use would require alteration of the Abies. There is currently no one in existence that can make those alterations." Desmond felt something in his chest knot, slowly squeezing breathe from his lungs. Despite Vesta's talent for understatement, her former charge knew exactly what she wasn't saying. Vesta was dying. And not for the first time, the assassin silently fumed at the presumptuous ineptness of those who came before.

One would think that geniuses who came up with the ship would have built her to last. Swallowing the spiteful commentary volleying back and forth through his already strained psyche, Desmond set to treating his injured hand. The paste wouldn't properly seal the wound, but the assassin didn't have any supplies for stitching. "What changes would be most viable in your current condition? And before you remind me there isn't anyone who can do it, you aren't worm food yet. I'll be back at the Abies soon, and then you can walk me through what needs to be done."

"Solar power would be the least complicated, and will require the least amount of material to execute. I will contact you with a list of substitutes for the parts that can't be converted here." "Ghramh," he said not even realizing that he was speaking Arabic, "ad'ew allh khtakm wadh, syfk sry'e, qdmyk samtwn." The light in his pendant faded, signaling the end to their "conversation". Still, Desmond knew that he would have to go back to the Abies before he returned to Bree. Involuntarily his injured hand twitched, the assassin really didn't want to deal with Vesta's particular form of whining.

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><p><strong>Translations <strong>

Ghramh- Fine

ad'ew allh khtakm wadh, syfk sry'e, qdmyk samtwn.- may your way be clear, your blade swift, and you feet silent

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><p>AN2: And for those who know Arabic who are going to say that this isn't a good translation, might I remind you syntax varies differently between these two languages. The basic meaning is still the same even if the words aren't.


	6. Warning this isn't a chapter !

**Author's note**: To my readers and reviewers whom thought that this was another chapter, I apologize. But there has been a most heinous injustice done by the management. Stories have been dropped without warning from the site on account of the content containing violence and sex scenes. And there are rumors still going around that there will be complete takedown of stories with same-sex pairing. On the behalf of myself and my fellow true readers and writers I implore everyone who reads this to join in protest of bullshit that the moderators of this site are trying to force us to swallow.

_**Pawprints of the writers and readers FOR petition (Join us, we need YOU!):**_

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	7. When Nothing Goes According to Plan

My dad is a negative, judgmental pain in the ass who destroyed my self-esteem, and tortured me my entire life. My mom's a violent, paranoid schizophrenic. God, I love my dad. - Christopher Titus

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><p>AN: Sorry about the long absence, really I've been too busy and or too tired to really let my muse have free reign. And to all my readers and reviewers who wanted to sign the petition on chapter 6, all you have to do is copy and paste the message and then add your name to it and pass it along.

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><p>Musical Inspiration for this chapter: All the right moves by One Republic, Bother by Stone Sour, and Rose by A Perfect Circle<p>

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><p>voidblade6- thank you for all your reviews, and yes Denethor does tend to both favor and obsess. But as much as a douche as he is, I can see where he comes from. He has what I call part-time daddy syndrome. There is no cure for child abuse, either you deal with it or you don't which Denethor obviously didn't.<p>

Anonymous Legacy- I can understand where you're coming from, but I never really viewed Desmond as an assassin, not like any of his ancestors were. For whatever reason they all made the choice, each Assassin in Assassins Creed chose to embrace that path. Desmond merely accepts it.

Deadzepplin- of course he'll be assassinating people, he is an assassin after all. As for killing important people, well that would be telling now wouldn't it?

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><p>Brenan Whitehood cut an impressive figure in a fine woven navy blue surcoat and camel tunic made of tulle, a gift created by his wife's own hand. A silent acknowledgment that though he wasn't legitimate, the brunette was still of the house that ruled just south of the white city. In life, the Lord Ecthelion had been kind to the child of Lord Mabden's betrayal, giving Brenan a chance to distinguish himself in his service, and helping Brenan establish his own house, independent of Brenan's paternal family, so that the ambitious man could wed his beloved. And like the rat that he was, Denethor waited until his father's death before undoing as many of the good works that of late lord as he could legally get away with.<p>

As a result Brenan was no longer a lord of the Stewart's court, though his house retained a mediocre of power, the noble-born bastard and his wife now suffered the disfavor at court, practically isolated and reduced to menial status amongst their contemporaries. And for a man whom spent his entire life proving that he was worth more than what little due he was given, the brown eyed soldier was livid to have a seemingly capable ruler not see his worth. For all Denethor's skills as a commander and that of statecraft, the gray eyed lordling was a product of his peers, a xenophobic, and self-entitled, not to mention cruel individual. "You're in luck Curimardin bastard. I've finally found a post worthy of your, service." Brenan didn't even twitch at the familiar insult.

Regardless of his own feelings Brenan knew there was a level of obligation and decorum that had to be observed. "As you know, it was the wish of our late lord that the lady Vinyaostiel be found. I would have his last command seen to. Return with lady Vinyaostiel that she may be laid to rest amongst kin in honor, or return not at all." Still Brenan dared not look up from the thrown room's polished white floor without Denethor's permission. The bastard son of the lord of Tumladen was in no hurry to be punished for whatever offense Denethor could imagine up.

"Your lordship, might I inquire as to your own findings on the subject?" Brenan asked in a deliberately innocent tone of voice. "Any insights of your grace's investigation into this matter would be most appreciated." The dark eyed man swallowed back the acidic bitterness of being relegated to this task. The lady Finduilas had warned him of the potential re-assignment. But even joining his wife's kin in Ithilien would be preferable to the impossible errand of finding the middle child of Ecthelion. At least if he became a ranger, then he could find a way to claw his way back up the social ladder of the Gondorian court.

It was long encouraged belief by Denethor himself that Vinyaostiel was dead, a suicide executed in grief. Brenan didn't believe it himself. If she were a corpse Vinyaostiel would have been easily found. That being said, Brenan saw no need to go dig out old wounds. The second child of his late liege was neither fickle, nor delicate, despite what others might willfully believe. He watched silently as Denethor's darkly gleeful expression morphed, becoming decidedly uglier than Brenan thought possible. "And what gives you right to question me?"

The illegitimate cur didn't even have the decency to sound the least bit contrite. "His lordship might recall that it was his late liege and father, whom first set him to this honor now being bestowed upon me." It would take a blind, deaf, and dumb commoner to not notice the barbed implication buried in the bastard's insolent tone. "I wish only to see this task done to his lord Steward's satisfaction." Denethor's rage was so great, whatever the new Steward wanted to say chocked in his throat, even as the low-born continued with his subtle diatribe on one of Denethor's many failures in the eyes of his now deceased father.

Brenan didn't dare smile as he heard the delicate grind of bone on bone. He could see the lord's hands flex and grip at thick cloth, not being completely hidden in the folds of his sleeves. It was a dangerous to egg Denethor on when Brenan knew that he was already out of favor. But if he was going to be sent into permanent exile, the former tower guard would do so expressing at least an infinitesimal dissatisfaction with his current lot as Denethor's whipping boy. "Of course his grace had, and has other duties." A pointed pause, "I would be of course grateful to his grace if he could tell me who knew of lady Vinyaostiel's last known whereabouts?"

Ecthelion's former captain of the tower guard didn't have to look up to know Denethor's face was rapidly changing color with the increasing intensity of his temper. Brenan's only regret was the knowledge that to lift his gaze now was to surely bring down the full wrath of the petulant lord he was forced to serve on his head. Denethor was still too furious to speak, cycling through the unvoiced insults being transcribed inside his rattling skull. Finally it became too much to hold in, "leave," the pampered lord-ling hissed. "GET OUT OF MY SIGHT I SAY, YOU UNGREATFUL WHORE-SON!" Brenan backed away a hairs breadth too slow to be polite; relishing the raging callow whelp screams gaining volume with each step he took.

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><p>By the time the grand doors of the tower Ecthelion closed behind him, Brenan was sure the sound of Denethor's fury had reached even the lowest level of the city. It was either a testament to their superior training, or distain for Denethor himself that the citadel guards on duty didn't so much as bat an eye as their former captain walked by, not in any real hurry to leave the citadel."That was most unwise Mr. Whitehood." Automatically Brenan turned toward the familiar voice coming from the shadows of black pillars, and bowed in the same movement.<p>

"My lady, you have heard?" lifting his head, Brenan watched worriedly as Finduilas moved her hiding place. The swan princess was without attendants, and dressed far too simply for what her station demanded. Long dark hair lay loose about her slender frame, easily blending in with the walnut shade of velvet skirts. And despite the current lack of sycophants dogging Finduilas's steps, Brenan was all too aware of the eyes watching them. As much as the Curimardin would like to believe none of these men would betray this sweet lady, whom had been nothing but good to them, Brenan was far from naïve.

Finduilas knowingly eyed her friend and ally. She also knew she risked much by speaking to him again. However discreetly they met, Boromir's mother was sure that Gondor had eyes and ears everywhere, the majority of which were owned by her manipulative spouse. And Denethor was far from forgiving as of late. "I think the whole of Anor has heard master Whitehood." The dark eyed aristocrat pointedly looked toward the black doors being guarded by two of Brenan's former colleges. "The burden of Stewardship is heavy upon my husband." She said demurely. "You would do well to seek out the former attendants of my lady sister-in-law; some yet reside still in the city." Finduilas now regarded her gilded cage grimly, "see this matter resolved quickly, for all our sakes."

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><p>Desmond Miles could not boast much of himself. He was neither the smartest, nor the fastest, or most skilled of his ilk; he didn't have the insatiable inquisitiveness that drove Altair, nor the passion that fueled Ezio, or even the drive for justice like Conner. And from what little Desmond could remember of them, even his parents and extended kinsmen that made up the modern Assassins Order were each uniquely special. In a world filled with personality giants such as Rebecca, Shaun, and even at times Lucy, Desmond was singularly average, a fact that he was more often than not grateful for, that is until he was trapped as he was now.<p>

From his meager hiding space amongst the rubble of the ancient courtyard of Tirband, the former American swore a continuous string of fetid profanities, just a breath away from getting himself caught. Ezio's descendant had expected obstacles to bar his path. The only way to get to the island fortress that was once Tyl Annûn was by no means easy to get to. But this, this was ridiculous even for his own brand of Murphy's Law. Desmond's current worse nightmare was camping out right in front of the secret passage he needed to get to. The former service ramp ran the length underneath the Ariant, the only bridge connecting the main land to the island palace of Ost Elendil and thus the Abies, which was buried under its very foundation.

Rangers were easily avoided, as they were more concerned with their' long time enemies rather than someone whom took great lengths not to be seen. Orcs were dispatched simply enough if Desmond was careful. But beneath the ruined building, from which Desmond perched, patrolled something infinitely more hazardous to the assassin's health. Men (and he used that term very loosely), dressed in full gold and black scaled armor, and well-worn robes made rounds around the Tirband camp of horrors.

They were Black Númenórean, powerful sorcerers, and generally an all around pain in the Desmond's ass. It wasn't even as if Vesta hadn't even warned the assassin of the disenfranchised descendents of the city's original occupants. But the artificial intelligence had no real scope of just how low the Númenórean sunk in their' rebellion against the Valar. Long after the Abies was buried under tons of dirt, a bunch of the Númenórean got tired of the Valar dictating their' existence. And thus, they saw fit to try and wrestle control from their' formerly greatest benefactors by siding with Sauron, the flunky for Arda's version of Lucifer.

Slowly the former subject 17 sank further back into the shadows of his perch, desperately attempting to remain undetected. Desmond wanted to avoid a repeat of his first and only encounter with the pyro-telekinetic thugs. Bad enough the three whom witnessed Desmond open the previously undiscovered entrance were all skilled fighters, but they also had the added bonus of being able to throw or burn him every time Desmond got within a hare's distance of fatally injuring them. The dark eyed New Yorker grit his teeth against the sensory recall that wanted to drag him back to that fight. "It doesn't matter." Desmond hissed at himself as firmly as he dared. The lie practically burned on the wanderers lips.

Apparently, his less than decisive execution of the "X-men wannabees" had been observed from afar. And as a result the Tirband camp nasties pursued him as ardently as their' war against the Rangers would allow. The assassin desperately appreciated that for whatever reason, neither the orcs nor their masters managed to track him outside the fallen city, and the rangers had no idea he knew how to get across the Ariant. He shuddered to think of the level of harassment he would have faced otherwise. Cautiously, the assassin's grip on his acquired crossbow tensed as he brought it to bear against his rain soaked shoulder.

Even in the dark freezing coastal weather Desmond could see two Númenórean garbed in full armor, including winged helm reclined against the stone coliseum that sat on top of the service entrance. Forcing himself to look for more threats, Desmond spotted a small camp of four more Númenórean further down the wall behind the coliseum, a camp of Harad men further still, with a few archers between the obviously segregated camps perched precariously atop the wall itself. Idly the assassin wondered if Sauron's peons really thought he would attempt to take them all head on. Had it been any one else attempting this, Desmond could honestly believe attacking would be a death sentence. He could practically hear the snide comments of his fallen "comrades" barraging his tired mind.

Desmond ignored the dark murmurs whispering incessant calls to cull the poor idiots dumb enough to get in his way. Because whatever his failings, be it real or perceived, Desmond Miles was no fool. Had circumstances not been as they were, regardless of hundreds of year's worth of experience crammed into his skull, and refined by the cold war he waged with the modern Templars, the assassin would have retreated, only to return while camp Tirband defenses were less stringent. But Desmond knew he didn't have that sort of time. "Vesta, you're up." He felt the answering warmth of the hidden jewel around his neck as he edged back into the dilapidated building with soundless steps. The assassin kept a steady aim on his targets even as he moved out of sight.

Vesta lied, pure and simple. It wasn't the first time the temple/ship artificial intelligence operated outside of her given parameters. But by it's own estimation this was certainly the most of extreme circumstances. The Abies's avatar had far less time to wait for subject Ducere Novo to make preparations before waking the six than she had given credence to. As it stood the ship was expending more energy than the Abies could collect from the trace minerals literally encasing the ship. Put simply the ship wasn't built to last as long as it had.

Even using satellite monitoring cost the Abies precious resources. Had Vesta had more power to spare, it would've known there was more than the Númenórean to worry about. However the synthetic intelligence still hesitated in pursuing more aggressive means of convincing the last of the Assassins' order of the desperation in the tank bound children's' situation. Vesta had observed her former charge's insecurity with her programming's approximation of confusion. Desmond Miles was a physically and mentally competent adult male. And despite all the multitude of variables pitted against the very fact, Desmond Miles was still functioning, and his opposition was dead.

However the descendent of her creators' great enemy rarely did anything that wasn't retaliatory, or motivated by an immediate gain. Vesta could only speculate on the severity of the cognitive blending, otherwise known as the bleeding effect that Desmond could go from passively self-doubtful not quite fully trained assassin, to a near force of nature, tearing a bloody swath through his enemies within thousandths of a second. This observation of the Assassin's volatile nature whilst cornered, led Vesta to not use any of the devices she had convinced Desmond to wear against him.

The former New Yorker would never know how "the birthday suit" functioned in conjunction with the crystal around his neck, much in the same manner as the apple of Eden. Though nowhere near as powerful as the other artifacts of similar design, Vesta could still compel the human to do things. But at the risk of Desmond finding out, and fleeing regardless of whatever consequences came to the six, the Artificial Intelligence was determined that it would never expose the purpose of her "gifts".

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><p>It was no small thing, finding, and ultimately trying to follow the journeying of one Desmond Whitehood. The man was like a ghost, never being seen or heard of along the few settlements of the Brandywine, just as Halbarad had reported. For the weeks that Aragorn's distant relative spent in perusal of the illusive Whitehood amongst the wilds, Niluana had nothing save what little information his kinsman provided. In fact, by the time Niluana reached the encampment of Echad Garthadir, one of the few remaining areas of the ancient abandoned city controlled by rangers, Niluana was both impressed and worried by what he had found.<p>

The supposed spy had actually been spotted nearly a year ago by a scout sent to watch the movements of the Black Númenórean controlling Tirband. "I hadn't believed the lad," Belecthir, the haggard captain of the company admitted, "No man could survive orcs and those Eru forsaken sorcerers alone, yet I was to believe this Whitehood took out a half dozen orcs and two of Umbar's most skilled in spell-craft that were guarding Tirband, and without aid? I thought the boy had imagined the whole thing." Valiantly the ranger of Enedwaith fought the urge to even consider scolding the obviously over-worked warden of Annuminas.

There was nothing to be gained by ill advised discord amongst those who should be allies. "This man is as real as you or I, and he trades often amongst the Bree folk with Annuminas coin, and a lot of it." Niluana pointed out a tad dryly. Brown eyes widened, and then narrowed in an instant, as the grizzly warrior considered his words. It was long thought that all the treasures of Annuminas had been emptied, and the only reason the agents of Agmar lingered was to retain a foothold in Eriador.

The idea that the unfaithful king's men had found a way to expand their reach was a vexing thought. Yet still, "If the sorcerers are indeed trying to branch out, wouldn't a man obviously having Dunlending blood carrying Annuminas gold be too noticeable? As much as it galls me to admit it, our enemy isn't that stupid." Niluana agreed, there were easier and less obvious ways of getting spies amongst the free peoples of middle earth. And just as galling as it was to admit to their enemy was smart enough to do such things, Niluana was sure that the agents of Umbar and Agmar alike had assets to call on within each kingdom of men.

"You are right of course; for all the good Ecthelion II did in his time as Steward, he could not uproot the traitorous ideals of the Atalantë. Already there is tale of his son Denethor falling to some of Ar-Pharazôn's folly." Both rangers fell silent, each embroiled with thoughts of the fall of the island nation of Númenor which in turn had led to the founding of Gondor and Anor, and forever changed the very shape of the world. The very thought that yet another sovereign of men would bring upon them all the fury of the Valar was a terrifying thought.

Suddenly their contemplations were interrupted by the call of one of the camp watchmen, "Belecthir, Than has returned without Nilal. And he is heavily injured." The older ranger was up and moving before the sentence was completely out the nearly breathless boy's mouth. Niluana was quick to follow. And suddenly the whole of Echad Garthadir was in chaos. Commands were being barked out by Belecthir and captains Niluana had yet to meet. The grizzled ranger all but ran across ruined court, ducking and dodging around other rangers as they scrambled to obey their' leaders.

By the time Belecthir forged the way to the healer's lodgings, the Enedwaith native was surprised that neither he nor the senior warden had ran over anyone. Without preamble Belecthir swept aside the blue coat of arms blocking their' way, pushed passed the rangers that were crammed inside the small building, and carefully navigated around the injured. "Alegan!" The dark eyed warden's voice boomed over the pandemonium, and Niluana desperately tried to not notice the smell of sick heavy in the air.

"Over here Belecthir! Come here and make yourself useful." Niluana followed the brunette deeper into the gloom, and once again struggled to keep his composure. Nestled deep in the gloom of the healer's tower, Alegan senior healer of the Echad Garthadir rangers grappled determinedly with his bloodied patient lying upon a stone table. Belecthir didn't hesitate to grab a weak fist which had been aimed at a head of stringy brown hair. He forced down thick ropey shoulders carefully with the full bulk of his weight, while Alegan struggled to treat Than. "Be still, you thrice be damned whore-son."

"Nilal! Nilal, I have to go back for Nilal. Let me go Alegan, I'll gut that Eru forsaken Whitehood if it is the last thing I do! Light of Elbereth protect me for not believing the boy when he said he saw someone kill those Atalantë, and now the cad has him." Niluana felt a cold chill run down his spine as the near senseless man raved; his voice thick with what the Enedwaith ranger assumed was self-reproach. He couldn't have been more wrong. Forcibly the injured man turned, nearly dislodging Belecthir and Alegan as he hung head over the side of the table, and emptied his stomach of blood and bile.


	8. Whatever deity guides my life

"The object of war is not to die for your country but to make the other bastard die for his."-General George S. Patton

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><p>AN: Hey guys, just so you know, I haven't stopped writing .However as I've often complained, my musi are fickle bitches that will drag me kicking and screaming in whatever direction my poor exhausted and often borderline ADHD imagination in whatever direction it can smell sugar off a leprechauns ass. Wow that was a little much even for me! Anyway instead of trying to write it all, which I don't have time for, I've opened a forum called ResonatinAeternum. I've already posted one prompt/challenge which I'm looking forward to seeing answered. Meanwhile, I'll continue trying to update the stories I've already written, and hopefully I'll get back to these "new" ideas later. –Rei

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><p>"Talk"<p>

"Vesta talk"

"_English"_

_Thought_

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><p>Musical Inspiration for this chapter: Otherworld by Two steps from hell, Indestructible by Disturbed, and All around me (acoustic version) by Flyleaf.<p>

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><p>TimeForced- Glad you like it, and hopefully the glossary I added to this chapter will make it easier to follow.<p>

KittyWillCutYou- here it comes, and I promise this particular shit storm will be especially messy.

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><p>Nilal, youngest warden of the Echad Garthadir rangers was once again watching the enemy camp, amongst the ruins of Clorhir, directly parallel to where the Atalantë posted two guards in front of a tomb. It was an important job, and a testament to his skill as a ranger that four out of the five senior wardens of his current posting would overlook his youth for the intelligence he was able to gather without getting caught. Of course, lately that trust has been under question. "Come on lad; let's leave it for the morrow, those nadorhuan rim ain't doing anything tonight."<p>

Nilal desperately held his tongue against the insults that he just as greatly wanted to verbally flay his burly companion with. Ever since the scout had reported the appearance of a man defeating the dark sorcerers on his own, Belecthir, or any of the other senior rangers for that matter wouldn't let him spy on his own. "Nilal, its wet, I'm cold and tired, there isn't anything to report that is of pertinence right now," Than complained again.

"If you please, Than do shut up," Nilal hissed, gray gaze darkening in annoyance. Than had been complaining for most of their watch, which was nothing unusual since the smaller ranger always complained, but after having to listen to the whining for nearly a year, the typically taciturn Dunedain ran out of patience. The bulky faced brunette wasn't much older than he, but the hazel eyed ranger was no scout, and that stuck the taller ranger's craw even more. Worse still, Than distracted him from doing his job more often than not, and today he was being even more troublesome than usual. "Regardless of what you-"

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><p>"<strong>Desmond, multiple hostiles are approaching. Your position has been compromised."<strong> Vesta disregarded the assassin's swears that answered it's warning, as it "observed" Desmond's progress via satellite. The hooded man had been slowly picking off Harad flunkies for the last hour and a half, by intentionally making conspicuous noises to draw patrollers. And they came, two and sometimes three at a time, but never alone. Not that it mattered. The southerners had no way to counteract Desmond's rapid ambush tactics.

Even with the deep gaping wound on the palm of his dominate hand, Desmond was able to blend in amongst ruined stone of Clorhir, and drag men into the darkness of crawl spaces, while slitting their' throats to prevent any from raising the alarm. And by the time their' compatriots figured out they were dead; Desmond was already using their' murdered kin weapons to kill them. More came, and the assassin killed them all. But Desmond was under no delusion that he could keep this up. Eventually the big boys would take notice, and the last remaining assassin's game of hide and go seek would be up.

Honestly, the former New Yorker had been hoping he could have killed just a few more before the Númenórean stepped in, but he wasn't about to let their' presence effect the outcome. Sliding fluidly into the jagged shadows of one of the many fallen outcrops, he backed away just in time for his instincts to start blaring bloody murder between his temples. A blaze of heat swathed a scorching path across waterlogged stone and moss strewn earth.

Desmond didn't stop moving. He didn't dare. Adûnaic words screamed through the roar of Bunsen blue gouts of flame, heralding his target's awareness of his position, as he darted between cover, and navigated a field of corpses. Peaking around a high wall as he rolled over one of his fallen victims, Desmond noted the orcish screams intermingling with the part enraged part pleading yelling of the few Harad whom were stupid enough to follow their' masters here. Idly the assassin chocked on the near hysterical laughter that wanted to escape his panting lips. Desmond wondered if the two maniacs throwing flames around were aware of the phrase "friendly fire."

Another Adûnaic screech, commanding as it was base and suddenly more enemies were coming. Altair's descendent rushed first Númenórean he could get close to, body low and arms outstretched behind him like wings. And suddenly arrows were flying toward Desmond, falling upon him like iron larks intent upon redirecting his path. But the former New Yorker maneuvered around them, smirking darkly as he abruptly dropped into a baseball slide, speeding between the armored man's legs. Too late did the doomed Númenórean's compatriots realize what Desmond was doing before their' ally was already dead and Desmond resumed doing his level best killing them all.

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><p>Than unceremoniously pulled Nilal down, while himself ducking out of sight as Númenórean sorcerers stormed passed their hiding place, precariously close to their' camp. The younger ranger was too good at his job to make a sound that would alert their' enemies of their' presence, but that didn't stop the white hot glare Nilal leveled his "partner" with. Than didn't even have the good grace to even look the least bit sheepish. Instead the blocky faced brute's dark gaze remained fixated on the Atalantë as they marched past. "Any ideas," he asked seriously.<p>

The younger Dunedain didn't bother to hide his incredulity, "I would have plenty, had you not been complaining for the entirety of our watch." Than let Nilal's hissed distain roll off his back he was finally, finally starting to pay attention. There was a notable drop in how many Harad and orcs there were in the company now, as opposed to when Than and Nilal started their' watch. There was no way to see passed the masked helm of the few Atalantë still at camp, but Than could barely make out the agitated muttering over the quietly drizzling rain.

"**Boom**!" The roar of a concussive blast drew more than the Dunedain's attention, as those left behind in their' enemy's camp quickly followed their' masters into battle. Nilal was already moving by the time the slightly older ranger opened his mouth, creeping down from their' hiding spot and toward the ruckus further into the Clorhir square. "Nilal wait, we don't know what's going on," almost desperately, the dark eyed warrior clambered after his younger compatriot nowhere near as stealthily, and noisily trying to keep up with the more skilled scout.

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><p>Desmond grits his teeth as he grasped yet another meat shield with his injured hand, and blocked a thrust that would've gutted him otherwise. Pandemonium had ensued after the assassin's initial trick. The cleverly engineered murder of one of their' own had caused the remaining black Dunedain to become raging mystic berserkers. What little care they once took to preserve their' own numbers was dropped, in favor of attempting to kill Desmond which led to the magicians' subordinates whom didn't run, to turn against them. All the while the assassin played the field, ducking and dodging in and out of sight, drawing fire, and then taking cover.<p>

Still, Desmond was unable to completely escape in the confusion that he had been planning for. And the former New Yorker couldn't but think that Vesta was right when she expected him to wake the six and just leave her in the vault to run out of power, never to come online again. Claws digging into his shoulder from behind forcibly ripped the brunette from his morbid thoughts. He dropped, as he was spun around and punched in the face. Painfully Desmond rolled away from the kicked that followed, and knocked down an equally lithe figure.

In the confusion of tangled limbs, Vesta's chosen fought to breathe as he desperately wrestled with the one he was tangled with. He was hyper aware of the mix of Adûnaic, Orcish, and Westron, being bellowed all around him. _Wait a minute, Westron? _Desmond wrapped his arms around the inside of his assaulter's elbows, pulling up and back sharply to lock the limbs in a painfully awkward angle. Driving his weight forward, the assassin managed to force the person he was fighting with face first into the ground, while Desmond sat on the small of his attacker's back. _"Who the fuck are you?"_

Nilal spat out the earth he had the misfortune of eating. The foreign words meant nothing to him so the scout ignored it in favor of fighting off his attacker. Trying to roll over, the Echad Garthadir warden grunted as his shoulders were wrenched back further. "Sauron's balls!" he cursed trying to get his knees under himself. Nilal painfully looked over his shoulder at the man sitting on him, and cursed again. "Than!" He wasn't about to let the reason for his ostracization and thus misery, slip from his grasp. Suddenly the man on his back was leaning forward, putting even more pressure on his already stretched arms.

Something snapped, and all Nilal saw was white. Desmond had ducked as he was yet again attacked, this time by Nilal's fellow ranger. Than had been desperately been trying to catch up to his "partner" whom he was sure rushed off foolishly in part to get away from him. Than's efforts were rewarded with being blindsided by murderously panicking Harad, and orcs. The burly warden was already limping from being hit in the knee with the sharp edge of an orcish shield, and bleeding copiously from his now useless sword arm, by the time he found Nilal being crouched over by the very man he had once thought didn't exist. "Get off him, whoreson," he yelled while trying to use his non-dominant hand to swing at the scout's captor.

In an act of amazing agility, the man flipped forward without losing hold on Nilal's arms, causing the young ranger to scream in agony when the full force of the Whitehood's weight slammed further up his back. Immediately letting go, the hooded man rolled again, this time to his feet, and made a run for it. Than paid no mind as yet another orc saw fit to attack him, and now with Nilal curled in on himself in pain the older injured warden had to defend both himself and the scout.

Desmond didn't get far, as this time gouts of fire cut off his path, followed by a screaming Harad warrior came at him with a mace. He quickly reached for the closest thing to a weapon that he could find, which happened to be a smoldering chain, made serrated sharp by the heat of the Black Númenórean fire. A primal scream wrenched from the assassin's throat as the heated steel met the open flesh of his palm. But he didn't stop. Desmond swung the chain as hard as he could, catching the mace wielding Southerner in the face, and inadvertently lassoing one of the orcs attacking Than. All too aware of the chaos around him, the former New Yorker pulled hard, sending the orc caught in its jagged edges careening toward the fire that was quickly consuming everything in sight.

Meanwhile, Than was being driven further and further away from Nilal by homicidally panicking orcs. The burly warden had already been knocked back by a surprisingly nimble kick to the sternum, and then forced to take a knee when another orc who was half running/half crawling body checked him. The same orc that knocked him back came after him again, this time with the help of another snarling monstrosity. So when one of his attackers fell, Than was shocked into momentary stillness, allowing his other attacker to strike him down. He didn't even have enough time to scream when the crude blade fell upon his shoulder with the brute weight of charging orc behind it.

It felt like his whole arm was being ripped from his body, as black metal sunk deep into his shoulder, breaking the collar bone, and sawing wetly toward his lungs. And distantly, the ranger could hear his "partner" yelling. Desperately, Than tried to fight passed the black now dotting his vision. And saw Nilal being dragged away by the man the younger warden had once swore up and down existed. Blood roaring in his ears, the brunette recklessly launched himself forward, sinking his own blade into his attacker's gut, and fainted from the pain. Hours later he would wake, and hours later he would drag himself back to Echad Garthadir to inform his fellow rangers just how badly they had all failed their' youngest kinsman.

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><p>Faun of the Cuthalion house, wife of Brennan Whitehood silently contemplated how far her family has fallen as a whole because of one spiteful man. There was no love lost between her family and Denethor II, whom viewed the exile of the former ruling house in southern Ithilien as just punishment for the enemy occupation of their' once ancestral home. But the current Stewart's obvious disfavor in her husband has resulted in Faun having to let go of comforts that both she and Brennan had worked tirelessly to gain.<p>

Even now the blond haired lady made her way to the fourth ring of Minas Tirith unescorted, save for the only maid the Whitehood household could now afford. Primrose, crafty old spinster that she was, watched the bustling residents of the city go about their' day while remaining close to her lady. Despite being well liked by the common folk, the Whitehood couple was too cautious to think themselves safe outside their' heavily guarded and fortified apartments. And with the disapproval of the influential lord they were suffering, the aging servant wouldn't put it passed some of the houses to take advantage.

Still, the gray eyed noble put on her best benignly pleasant mask, as she walked along battered old streets. She politely acknowledged every greeting called out to her, and never faltered from the quiet dignity she projected, even as she found what she was looking for. The house was a little wooden rickety thing amongst the once white gleaming stone surrounding it. Hardly the only structure of its kind, but still sadly neglected nonetheless. Pulling back her heavy sleeve so as not to catch the expensive fabric on a stray splinter Faun rapped her delicate fist against the door. After a moment it was cracked open a tad, "whose there?"

"I am Faun lady of the house of Whitehood, and I have come to speak with Elena whom once served her grace Vinyaostiel as a lady in waiting." The door was cracked open just a tad more, and Faun was able to make out the tired features of a woman who could easily been a courtier herself. The moon pale flesh stood out against the stark black mahogany of her wide eyelashes. "My husband has been appointed by the Stewart to find her."

"Then why isn't he here?" The woman paused as if just realizing that she was disrespecting a woman of higher station, "my lady." Faun ignored the barb, seeing it for the suspicious tone for what it was. The noble-born was now sure that this was Elena. The petite woman too defensive not to be, her seemingly blank cherubic features could not hide her other tells. She gripped the door with a white knuckled grasp, even as loose chips of wood bit bloody sores into her palms. Big brown eyes darted fleetingly between Faun, Primrose, and the bustling city behind them. Elena was afraid.

"My husband is too busy making ready for our departure from Minas Tirith. Our course will be set once I tell him of my findings here." Suddenly the door was swung the rest of the way open, and Vinyaostiel's former handmaiden was finally fully revealed. And Faun was stunned by just how tiny she was. Elena was a hairsbreadth away from being mistaken for the legendary small-folk of the Shire. Only the delicately elongated set of her bone structure emphasized by ill-fitting wool gown hanging from her thin frame stopped the fair lady from assuming that Elena was some half-breed bastard that Vinyaostiel took pity on.

And suddenly she and Primrose were being ushered in the woman's dilapidated home. "Come, quickly before you catch the attention anyone unseemly." Faun didn't bat a lash as she glided inside even as her blustering servant followed at her heels. Elena firmly shut the door behind them before she said another word. "Lord Denethor's puppets cornered me when my lady first disappeared. They asked no questions, I was warned to keep my silence or a dismissal would be the least of my problems." For all the youthful fervor of the former maid's features Elena's glare was ancient, "now you come, years later saying the man whom wanted Vinyaostiel to remain gone is sending you on a wild goose chase, only for you to leave me here to face the penalty of breaking my silence? No, you will take me with you."

"Mind your tongue, a noble lady stands before you now." Primrose turned to defend her employer's honor, not at all liking the surly midget whom they were forced to seek out. Faun raised a silencing hand, stilling whatever escalating exchange that could have occurred otherwise. There was good reason for the woman's discourtesy after all. To be dismissed from noble service under the circumstances that Elena had was bad enough, but to be threatened on top of that by a man who had the whole of Gondor to call upon, Faun could understand why a woman with no allies of high standing would be angry.

Still it begs to question, "What is it that you know, that Denethor would feel the need to have his men intimidate you?" Elena scoffed, walking passed them and further into her ramshackle home. It was surprisingly warm, considering all of the gaps Faun and Primrose could see between the wood on the walls, and holes in the thatched roof. The crudely dug out fire pit, in the center of the dirt floor definitely contributed to why the woman hadn't froze to death. Brenan's wife grimaced at the stench that permeated from the sunken enclosure. She didn't want to think about what Elena used to fuel the fire.

The petite woman seemingly had no such aversion, and sat on thick pallet close to the pit. And it was all Brenan's wife could do not to grimace. "I know that Denethor wouldn't send his puppets after a lowly maid unless he thought I knew something worth killing over. Now I'm not saying another word until you promise to take me with you when you leave." So saying, the former handmaiden fell silent waiting for the woman's response.

Faun had to stop her servant from once again joining in on the belligerence that their' less than gracious host instigated, though the lady dearly wanted to do so herself. But the aristocrat knew better than to answer Elena's defensive anger with her own venom. This required a measure of subtlety. "You are right. Denethor wouldn't send men to warn you off, if **he** thought you knew anything." The blond let the statement linger, telling Elena exactly what she thought of the current Stewart's intelligence, Elena's own usefulness, and thus Faun's willingness to leave her to face that murderous stupidity on her own, without saying a word.

The former maid's petite features warped with a grimacing glare. "You would leave me to die, knowing that your even being here is all but a death sentence?" The former maid spat on the ground before Faun's feet. "I owe you nothing. I owe that pompous lord-ling even less for sentencing me to live in this squalor. At least have the decency to let me keep my life, or are you just another spoilt blue-blood too caught up in your own machinations to mind the consequence to us simple folk?" It was obvious that Elena didn't want to give even the slightest of favors to what she felt was nothing more than yet another interloping noble. And it wasn't as if Faun couldn't understand why she was reluctant. But the Whitehood household could hardly support another servant while in the process of being essentially exiled.

Vinyaostiel's former attendant's silence on the subject represented only that much longer she and her husband would be forced from all they earned. "I am all too aware of your predicament and I want to help, but as things stand, we literally have no time, and no means to support another servant on our journey. At most I can offer coin which you may use to move out of the city if you wish." Not that it would be enough coin to move far, but there was little Faun was willing let alone able to give. "What say you to that offer?"

"I say that before her disappearance, my lady spoke extensively albeit perhaps naively exploring beyond the borders of Minis Tirith. She spoke most amorously of seeing the wonders of Eriador from the Misty Mountains all the way to Rivendell. Mayhap your ladyship starts there. And be there any truth to the lady Vinyaostiel still living, there I think you will find her." Graciously Faun thanked Elena and doled out enough silver pieces from her purse to see the petite woman out of the city, and hopefully into a home far enough away from Denethor's wrath.

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><p>When Nilal woke, it was to excruciating pain. His clavicle disjointedly ached, the bones seemingly pressing against livewire nerves for no apparent reason. His arms were nowhere near as painful, but the constant pins and needles sensation made Nilal want to throw up. It was only the soothing solid cold of the bark beneath his back that prevented the man from fainting. "You awake yet? Because we're going to have to move soon in order to avoid the storm."<p>

The brunette cracked his eyes open a fraction wider, and quickly sucked in a lung full of air, ready to bellow out his astonished fury. But the man, whom as far as Nilal was concerned ruined his life, was quick to cover his mouth. The mysterious wanderer sunk his dirty nails deep into the young ranger's face, abruptly cutting off any sound Nilal could've made. "This is going to go one way, and that is my way." Whitehood informed him bluntly. "Your friend is most likely dead; you have 2 recently re-located shoulders, and a punctured thigh. You will not hinder me anymore than you already have by breathing. Are we clear?" semi-pale hand let go of his mouth.

"Why didn't you leave me to die like you did Than?" The question was a harshly ill advised in Nilal's wiser estimation. But in the troughs of terror, the dark eyed warden found himself too enraged to care. The stocky ranger may have worked his nerves, but he was still a brother in arms, and no one deserved to be abandoned in the manner in which his rescuer had seemingly decided upon. The sight of Than bleeding an alarming amount while facing orc alone will now haunt him forever.

"You know, I asked myself the same question." The infamous Whitehood mused sarcastically. "I'm not in the habit of saving fucking future corpses, too fucking retarded to realize I just saved their sorry ass from an in all likelihood painfully slow death." Deeply set cheeks pinched and paled in the indignant fury. But whatever the scout was about to say was lost in the bite of the mysterious wanderer's next words. "Look if you still want to die that's fine by me. Go carry you're crippled ass on to your executioner for all I care, but if you want to live, well your particular brand of bullshit is not going to fly."

The sheer gall of the man stunned Nilal, whom thought himself used t other often harshness of the life in the wilds amongst his kin. Apparently he had the re-evaluate his measure of gruffness to include the sheer venom being spat at him by this slighter man. Having earned his 'bad idea's' momentary silence, Desmond quickly lifted the ranger on his back, and continued on his way to the ruined palace where the vault, and ultimately the Abies awaited.

Nilal's squawk of indignation was lost to his gasp of awe as he finally took notice of where he was. Even in such a deplorable state, Ost Elendil was still a towering gray stained beacon ominously imposing upon its island perch. Desmond said nothing, both grateful and wary of the warden's stillness. It couldn't last, and the former American was in no hurry to think up a lie to tell the man that his entire assassin training told him he should've let die.

Vesta had yet to weigh in on his decision to not kill the man. And Desmond was almost as conflicted about her continued silence as he was about the cold war being waged in his frontal lobe. Though he was reluctant to admit it, the assassin could use a third opinion at the moment. "How did you find your way here?" The last assassin wanted to groan. He knew that the boy's shock couldn't last. "Tyl Annûn has been abandoned since the beginning of the third age, and inaccessible even to the agents of Sauron's evil and the kingdoms of middle earth alike going on nigh 2,000 years."

Reverence seeped in every word, so achingly familiar; Desmond did his level best not to throw Nilal off one of the all too conveniently located cliffs. As much of a killer he had become, the last survivor of the world that was didn't want this man's death on his conscience. "I didn't need to," the assassin said tersely, "this is what is left of my home." _A true enough answer _Ezio chimed from the confines of his skull. Uncomfortable, both physically and mentally, Desmond quickly readjusted his hold on the injured man in his grasp, and kept moving with the hope that the ranger would just shut up for awhile.

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><p><strong>Glossary <strong>

Adûnaic- "the language of the west" spoken primarily by the men of Númenor during the second age, but is still used by their' descendants the Black Númenórean.

Atalantë- is a derogatory term for the descendants of the king's men. The Númenórean turned away from Gondor's traditional friendship with the elves and became known as the Black Númenórean because of their worship of Sauron.

Clorhir- large square located in eastern Annuminas, between Tirband and Glinghant, east of Echad Garthadir.

Dunedain- Descendents of the kingdom of Númenor who relocated to Eriador in Middle Earth after the Valar destroyed the island of Númenor in the second age.

Echad Garthadir- Ranger settlement in the south-west Annúminas.

Eriador- Northwestern region of Middle Earth composed of many regions, spanning from the Blue Mountains in the west, to the Misty Mountains in the east, from Forochel in the north to Dunland in the south.

Ithilien- "Moon-land," is the easternmost province of Gondor.

Minas Tirith- "The tower of guard" Southern capitol city of Gondor

Ost Elendil- The palace located on the fortified island of Tyl Annûn in Annuminas, which used to be the capitol of Gondor's kingdom in the north.

Tirband- the courtyard controlled by agents of Mordor that is located on, north of Clorhir and east of the trail to Ariant, the bridge over to Tyl Annûn.

Vinyaostiel- The younger of Denethor's two older sisters, missing presumed dead.

Westron- sub-language derived from Adûnaic and spoken by the majority of the Gondorian Empire after the downfall of Númenor.

**Translations**

Nadorhuan rim- (Sindarin) cowardly dogs


	9. Please Lord, don't let me die tonight

A/N: So many ideas, and so little time, energy, and motivation to do them. I've been sitting on this chapter practically forever and finally found the time to just go for it. Honestly I've been hard at work, so this will probably be the last chapter in awhile. I had a cool idea for a Harry Potter/ Game of thrones crossover where Harry is reborn as a direwolf, but quite frankly, I have enough on my plate. So I'll post it as a challenge on tumblr and name it Wynter. Anyway back to the show. –Xinn

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><p>"Brave or foolish, I am alive."-Takeda Mortal Kombat X<p>

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><p>Musical Inspiration for this chapter: Ain't No Grave by Johnny Cash, Holy Ghost by Helicopter Showdown &amp; Sluggo Remix, and Blow Me Away by Breaking Benjamin.<p>

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><p>"Talk"<p>

"**Vesta talk"**

**(Valar talk)**

'Thought'

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><p>When-You're-Evil – glad that I got your interest and I'm looking forward to keeping it, I promise more plot twist than a lawyer with a six figure salary.<p>

Jason123456- Don't worry all of Desmond's ancestors will make an appearance one way or another in this story.

Guest- Sorry I didn't mean to confuse anybody. The simple explanation to your question is that the rangers didn't attack Desmond; two of them ran into him in the middle of a skirmish. And the rangers aren't mad at him, they're suspicious. Put simply they're racial profiling. A man who looks like their' enemy, with no known history is toting around currency that hasn't been in circulation for hundreds of years.

Mystic Archer Horse- Trust me I'm not going to let this one slip through my fingers, it's too good of an interesting concept for me to completely put down.

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><p>Vairë the weaver perched primly before the loom of ages, a craft of her own making. Once upon a time she sought to be the greatest amongst her sisters, by obtaining the greatest wealth of knowledge. Forcibly the ethereal beauty kept a steady even grip upon the threats of "all that is". Many a millennia may have passed, but Melkor's folly, and eventual fall was still a fresh wound infected with malice upon her psyche. <strong>(Great fear haunts thy thoughts, beloved.)<strong> The pale Ainu relaxed into the crushing weight of her husband's presence.

Only discipline honed through an eternity's worth of practice prevented her nimble fingers from faltering in pushing the shuttle filled with delicate whispers of remembrance, and possibility into the pattern she had been working on for what was approaching an age, as Vairë embrace her spouse's power with her own. **(Great change has come,) **Multifaceted eyes caressed the latest addition to her ever expanding tapestry. 2 score and 3 feet away from the journey of Bilbo Baggins, the battle of five armies, and ultimately the death Thorin Oakenshield king under the mountain, A female, as fair as any of Ainur under the light of the one, floats above six stars upon the cliffs of Annuminas. **(That which is unknown to us now joins in our song, to what purpose I fear? It is just as unknown.)**

Cold comfort vibrates through her being, as Namo stares through her eyes at the image under and to the right of the spirit she had depicted. A man now stood behind 6 children, six star spangled banners, in a curiously red and white scheme lined their' way from the fallen Minas Anor to the white tree on fields of black banners in Minas Tirith. And the question which was whispered in her mind, echoed through the weaver's being. **(Who are they, and why would the matters of men concern us?)**

Vairë sent playful pricks of disapproval along their' intermingling essences. How many times had Namo rebuked Manwë himself, in far harsher a manner than she was now, for disregarding the very real dangers the sky-lord would rather pretend didn't exist? How many times had the Valar as a whole not see the threat before it was far too late, and the measures taken to correct said mistake, drove them away from the world which they had created. **(The shifting of a pebble could herald and avalanche.)**

**(And the sky's could be as dark as charcoal, and it would not rain one drop,)** was the stern yet oh so tender retort. From his raised dais in the hall of judgment, the lord of Mandos's gazed fixated upon the fëa whose name he didn't bother to divine, even as he waited for the soul to fully coalesce before him. This creature was but another of the precious few in existence to be on the cusp of shedding their' finite form to seek a place amongst the eternal rest of Valinor, only to be relegated here. The destructive potential of each who passed Namo's gaze was too great to risk. So it fell to him keep them from the glory of their' "home", even as his soul filled with something like pity for what they each endured, mixed with the awe that they lived at all.

Vairë could just as easily see from his eyes, as he could from hers, and now he urged her to look, and to see as he saw. **(Tis an easy thing to forget, that for all their' frailty, that the younger children of Ilúvatar****still hold so much power within them?)** And just like that, his good wife's fëa slid against his skin with all the nuanced patterning of her most lovingly crafted silks, looking through his eyes. **(But we cannot forget,)** more of the weaver's power filled him, and a thousand things that had already passed, and had yet to be played behind his open eyes.

The man from Vairë's tapestry moved through hoards of Sauron's foulest, as smoothly as one of his own wife's works, cutting a wide bloody ribbon through their' ranks, and leaving towers of orc flesh in the wake of the priestly white he wore on his way to the crumbling Ost Elendil. The same man now stood with the ring of Sauron in one hand, and a drawn blade in the other. Faster and faster the visions streamed into his perception, until he couldn't keep track of the endless couldbe's and already was's. **(Enough, sweet wife,)** he finally called the visions to an end, **(I will know the truth of it for myself.)** Namo stood. He would seek his answers in mastered visions of his closest brother Irmo, and then perhaps Manwë would heed Vairë's council as he did. From her throne, Vairë smiles.

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><p>Covered in Than's blood, Belecthir and Niluana tiredly left Eched Garthadir's makeshift healers quarters. Anymore interference from them would merely hinder Alegan's endeavors to make sure his charge survived. Belecthir's thick brows wrinkled uncomfortably close to the pulsing vein between his eyes. He could feel a monster of a headache building there. The senior warden was certain that if the boy did survive, Eched Garthadir would be losing yet another able bodied ranger. The damage Than sustained to his right trapezius and sternocostal head muscles were extensive. He would never wield a sword properly again.<p>

"Belecthir," the doe eyed ranger abruptly shoved myriad of dark emotions into the deepest corner of his mind. His brothers-in-arms needed him to hold it together. The archer raised his hand in greeting to his fellow senior ranger, Caler whom approached with an agitated grimace twisting his block jaw, and barely controlled violence in his long stride. Caler, whom was Belecthir's senior by twenty years, took it especially hard when the younger rangers were harmed, now gazed upon him with ancient pained eyes. "Clorhir is a disaster zone; it's a wonder that most of it isn't completely burned to the ground."

Hot rage wanted to boil over and spill into accusations that Belecthir knew he had no right in voicing. Instead he turned his attention to Alan, and Arden, Caler's star apprentices and the best trackers Eched Garthadir had ever produced. They had gone with their' teacher along with others to rescue their' missing scout. He assumed that they were still looking, whilst Arden, Alan, and Caler were informing him of their' findings. "Any sign of Nilal?" Deliberately the heavily scared warrior left out any mention of Whitehood.

"Weak signs at best, captain. And what little evidence of Than and Nilal's presence were even in Clorhir in the first place, it was either scorched by Atalantë fire, washed away in the rain, or trodden over by Orcs." Fox faced Arden informed him grimly, his flint-like gaze cutting across Belecthir to stare at their' company's standard hanging over the healer's entrance, where Alegan was most assuredly fighting for Than's life. "Has Than given you any clue as to where Nilal was taken?"

The un-asked question of their' ranger-kin's yet precarious wellbeing weighed heavily between them. And Belecthir once again found himself fighting back the tidal wave of emotions dragging his much needed good sense. "Alegan is still working on him." He finally gritted out, uncomfortably clearing his throat of tears he'd swallowed back ever since Than had somehow dragged himself back to them. "Where are the others?"

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><p>Rangers of Echad Garthadir descended upon Tirband like flies on a rotted corpse, ravenous for the advantage over their' disoriented enemies, pushing into the chaos that now consumed the agents of Sauron's camp. Lean led the charge, a foolhardy resource gatherer, whom had been too long away from his family, and now saw an opportunity to make this place that much safer for his daughters. Thoan, sister son to Than, picked off targets from whatever perch he could bulldoze up to, vengeance fresh upon his young mind.<p>

They were followed by others, just as blind with desperate greedy rage and intent upon winning back a long thought lost part of their' heritage. If not for the calculative Alen, the dozens of rangers who abandoned the investigation in Clothier would've become victims of the very chaos they were attempting to take advantage of. Cool-headed, yet dedicated Alen served as a voice of reason, when the state of the choke point between their' enemy camps. It was he, who proposed to send Alan, Arden, and Caler back to Eched Garthadir.

It was he, who now coordinated their' movements, even as the greater numbers, and might of Sauron fell under the persistence and better organization of the invading Dunedain. And it was he, who ordered them away from the fleeing few survivors, to concentrate their' efforts on quickly establishing a strong perimeter, searching for Nilal, and sending for back up to cement Eched Garthadir dominance in Tirband. Just a fraction of the dozens he took command of were lost, but as far as Alen was concerned, it was a few too many. "Thoan, Berhet, Nirat, return to camp, and get as many healers and supplies as the captains can spare." His dulcet shout cut through any cheers of victory his kin could call out.

The muddy wet mess that was Than's closest of kin in camp jumped over the crumpled wall he had used a leveler for his shots. In a word, Thoan was livid, "you will not tear me from this." He proclaimed, marching right passed, or at least attempted to march right passed the senior ranger.

Alen caught the archer's arm in an iron vice of his unoccupied hand, shoulder checking the enraged youth harshly, to make Thoan meet the blue slate of his own gaze. "Than does not require your vengeance. Save it for the day if ever he should fall to enemy hands. But hear me now; I will take vengeance, for every life and limb that could've been saved if not for your childishness. Am I understood?" Alen gripped Thoan's arm in emphasis.

"Clearly," the young hunter snarled, ripped himself away from Alen. But regardless of his mood, Thoan followed Berhet, and Nirat, who were already headed back with all haste. Alen didn't give them a second thought, and turned to bark out more orders, even as he moved to help his fellow rangers to establish a defendable position before resources, and supplies could come.

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><p>'Well I got my wish,' a certain assassin thought with just a touch of bitterness. The ranger that Desmond had rescued lay across his back passed out, adding dead weight to the dark eyed wanderer's ever growing list of problems. Not surprisingly, slogging through Ost Elendil was harder than Desmond anticipated. The heavens had opened up; finally too full to contain the sea of salty pay load the clouds had been carrying all day. Desmond's already troublesome walk became that much more difficult, when the earth beneath his feet took on the consistency of pudding. And he lamented yet another set of clothing wouldn't survive trekking through nearly knee deep Annuminas mud, and icy daggers of sea water soaked through already blood incrusted clothing.<p>

The assassin didn't bother fighting of shivers. The knowledge that as much discomfort as he was in now, the fact that he was uncomfortable meant that he was less likely to die. Desmond used every trick he could drag from his ancestors' memories for walking in stuff that felt like wet cement slowly solidifying around his ankles. Balancing on the balls of his feet, the animus trained assassin propelled himself forward, ignoring the pained moaning of his "passenger". The sooner they were inside the dilapidated walls of his "home", the sooner they could both rest.

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><p>Vesta "watched" her charge's progress through the satellite array orbiting at 15,000 miles above the Abies's current location. The assassin's progress was below his average speed, and in this inclement weather the likelihood of Desmond falling ill increased dramatically. The most immediately logical course of action would be to leave the man who he rescued. But there were a number of exonerating circumstances which effected Vesta's decision to "hold her peace." But the most concerning to Vesta right now, was the invasive examination being conducted on the Abies hull.<p>

Vesta focused more of the Abies processing power unto the Malware trying to infect her system. **"Intruder, identify yourself."** The judge of the dead didn't withdraw from the presence his wife swore up and down was as fair as any Ainur. And now listening to the melody of "her" existence, Namo couldn't help but agree. This being's song was deeper than the bed rock it was buried on, thrumming and concussive. The lord of Mandos recognized the steady rhythm in his bones all the way from his halls. **"Intruder, identify yourself, or expulsatory measures will be activated."**

Spires of silver narrowed, and Namo's power automatically surged forth in response to the blatant threat. The Vala as a whole may have withdrawn from middle earth, himself included, but the very essence of this place remembered them. The wash of the Ainur's power filled the lightless space like a violent high tide, overpoweringly all-consuming. **(Who are you to order the doomsman of the Valar?)** His "voice" never rose above a thread above a whisper, but the command laced magic rolled unpromisingly through the air.

"**My designation is Abies Avatar Vesta Alma Mater type 20 class Omicron."** Blank eyes stared unerringly to where Namo gazed from the reflective pool, safe within his brother's gardens. The creature seemed wholly unmoved by the doomsman's show of dominance, and regarded his sudden presence within her ability to perceive, as one might regard a substance-less phenomena, curious yet un-invested.** "For what purposed are you scanning my vessel?" **"She" queried with the same emptiness as before.

And despite himself, the dark Ainur was intrigued as well as confused. The metallic resonance in the chord progression denoted little besides its arrival in middle earth. A fallen star missed by everyone under Ilúvatar's creation, Melkor included, because simply put the first age of Arda was a busy time. And yet the cadence in the rhythm spoke of something far older than Namo was able to comprehend. He cast his bewildered gaze to his brother, and master of dreams. Irmo stood over Namo's shoulder as the doomsman kneeled before one of his garden's many pools, equally as intrigued, yet nowhere near as disturbed by his wedded siblings' were by this discovery. **(What is "scanning"? I do not understand this word) **the lord of Lúrin enquired.

Again the being's song remained un-reacting. Neither of them could've known the thousands of algorithms Vesta was running in order to completely block these unknown threats from assaulting her systems firewalls. **"Scanning, present progressive verb. To** **look at something carefully, usually in order to find someone or something." **The avatar stalled. For all her ability to generate thousands of scenarios and their' outcomes, Vesta didn't calculate this.

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><p><strong>Glossary<strong>

Ainur- The Holy Ones encompassed both The Valar and The Maiar. They were the first and mightiest beings created by Eru Ilúvatar in the depths of time before the beginning of the World.

Irmo- Master of Dreams and lord of Lórien or Lúrin in Valinor, was responsible for the making of dreams. He was also the husband of Estë and brother to Mandos and Nienna.

Ilúvatar- is the supreme deity of Arda. He was the single creator, above the Valar, but has delegated most direct action within Eä to the Ainur, including the shaping of the Earth (Arda) itself.

Manwë- is the greatest of the Ainur, one of the Aratar, King of the Valar, husband of Varda, brother of Melkor, and King of Arda.

Melkor- later called Morgoth is the first Dark Lord of middle earth and master of Sauron.

Minas Tirith- the capital of Gondor in the Third Age and the Fourth Age of Middle-earth.

Namo/ Mandos- called Mandos for the same halls he ruled, he presided over the elves that were slain, and he was responsible for the judgment of the dead.

Vairë- is an Ainu and Vala who was responsible for the weaving of the story of Arda.

Valinor- meaning _Land of the Valar_ was the realm of the Valar in Aman, the place to which they moved after being driven from Almaren by Melkor.


End file.
